I Want To Hold Your Hand
by Maggie Penhale
Summary: Dr. Stirling Aylesworth is talented, intelligent, and beautiful. But unfortunate events in her past have left her ostracized from the world of medicine and unsure about her future. That is until a chance meeting with a handsome but goofy police constable provides her with the chance she needs to prove herself and practice her calling again. Story begins year or so after Season 6.
1. Prologue

**The characters and situations associated with the TV program _Doc Martin_ are the property of Buffalo Pictures. All I own is an overactive imagination.**

**I appreciate any feedback and advice from readers willing to share.**

* * *

It's the white police uniform shirt tied like a halter-top that first attracts him to her. With a black lacy bra underneath, black skin-tight shorts with the famous London Met checkerboard up the side, shapely bare midriff, and the Met police cap, it's a rather attention-getting outfit. Add the very loosely knotted black tie, knee high black boots, mirrored sunglasses and high-visibility safety jacket with The Metropolitan Police patch on the back, she's impossible not to notice. The fact she's just marched on to the pub's stage to a chorus of whoops, hollers and shrill whistles, makes her positively mesmerizing.

Joe thinks he may be in some kind of law enforcement heaven.

"I told you. I told you," says the man standing next to him, grabbing him by the shoulders and giving him a vigorous shake.

Yes, Sam had told him all about the "dishy" singer he had talked to several weeks ago at this "bobby" bar in Bristol.

Fresh out of prison, Joe's brother is following the straight and narrow, snagging a job with an interior decorating contractor willing to overlook his criminal record and give him a chance. He'd been gainfully employed for about two months before he gave Joe a call. The conversation had been strained at first - Joe isn't one to forgive and forget, especially given his job as a police constable. But he's always looked up to his big brother and, after a few weekly chin wags on the telephone, Sam was urging him to come visit.

"I'll show you the sites; we'll catch up and have a pint or two," he'd said.

It took a few weeks for Joe to arrange the time off - just a three-day weekend really - and during that time, Sam had entertained him with stories about the posh woman he had been chatting up. She sang at the local pub, which just happened to be where most of the Bristol police force larked about after work.

"If I want to follow the law, I should hang out with the law," Sam had joked.

During their last conversation, he had promised Joe that, during his visit, they would visit the police hangout so he could see the magnificent Stirling - that apparently was her name - in the flesh.

_Flesh indeed_, he thinks.

She's as beautiful as Sam bragged - long, muscular legs; a thin but shapely torso; a well-proportioned chest, and a firm-looking bum. It's hard to tell how tall she is as she dances around the small, raised stage but Joe estimates her at about 1.7 metres or five feet, seven inches. Her face is a perfect oval with a cute, snub nose and full lips. He can't tell what colour her eyes or hair are from where he stands - the spotlights are too bright, her hair pulled back in a severe bun and shoved under her hat - but they appear to be dark. She wears no jewellery.

The fact she can actually sing well is apparently lost on the inebriated Bristol bobbies who crowd around the raised stage, mad for her to notice them.

She's currently performing a rocking cover of Cheap Trick's I Want You to Want Me, which every man in the place seems to be taking to heart. Her back-up band - comprised of a lead guitarist, bass guitar player and drummer - are pretty talented as well, especially at keeping the braver patrons off the stage and away from their singer.

_You have to be a pretty gifted musician to be able to keep playing while bouncing a drunk constable off the stage_, Joe thinks, watching the bizarre spectacle. And this is just the first song in the set.

"Is it always like this?" he shouts into his brother's ear.

Sam shakes his head.

"Only on the nights she's here," he says, gesturing to the svelte singer who is currently having one of her boots licked by a very inebriated middle-aged man in a rumpled suit.

"And how often is that?"

"Every Friday and Saturday night."

"What's she do the rest of the week?"

"I have no idea," says Sam, snagging them a small raised table. "She's not exactly talkative. All I know is her name is Stirling and she sings two nights a week with this band. The lead guitarist is the nephew of one of her friends or something. What'll you have?"

Joe orders a pint of cider and sits back to watch the show. The band is eclectic and the singer seems to be capable of singing anything, from cheesy country requests to modern rock and pop plus classics from the 1960s to the 1990s. And the crowd loves her.

Sam soon returns with the drinks.

"Another thing," he says, pausing to take a long drink. He nods toward the stage. "She doesn't drink. No alcohol. Only ice water."

"I think that's what's running through her veins," he adds with a laugh. "I can get nowhere with her. She's nice, polite, laughs at my jokes and then shuts me down."

"Maybe she has a boyfriend or a husband," Joe suggests.

"Barkeep says no; says she's single, straight and available."

"She just must have really good taste in men," Joe says, waiting for the reaction.

Sam slaps him on the shoulder.

"Just wait," he says. "She'll slam the door in your face too. Guaranteed."

Joe doesn't doubt it. When it comes to the opposite sex, his life is a ghost town of despair. Of course, it's hard to meet women when you're the police constable of a small fishing village along the north shore of Cornwall. Well, women who aren't too young, too old, aren't already married, or still have all their original teeth.

He's finished about two pints to Sam's four and is feeling a little happy by the time the band finishes its first set. The musicians manage to find a table and order a round of beers plus a jug of ice water. The female singer is nowhere to be seen.

About five minutes later, Joe sees her appear from the women's washroom. She's still wearing her police costume but she's traded the high-visibility jacket for a long cardigan. She's also restyled her long, curly auburn-coloured hair into a ponytail and freshened what little makeup she's wearing. As she walks over to the band's table, Sam calls her name. She looks over, smiles and waves, pouring herself a glass of water from the jug before sauntering over.

"Hello Sam," she says, grabbing an empty chair from the table beside them. "I haven't seen you in more than a fortnight. Where have you been hiding?"

Her accent is proper upper crust London; not what Joe is expecting. As she settles into her chair, he sees her eyes are a hazel colour, her cute nose sprinkled with a dusting of light freckles. She's gorgeous.

"I've been busy getting some overtime hours," Sam explains. "I'd like you to meet my kid brother, Joe. Joe, this is Stirling."

"Nice to meet you Joe," she says, offering him her hand to shake. He does so, clasping her long, regal fingers in his, suddenly feeling shy.

"Joe's visiting for the weekend from Cornwall," Sam says. "He's a constable with the Devon and Cornwall force."

Stirling gives him an appraising look.

_He's kind of cute_, she thinks.

"You must feel right at home with this lot," she says with a smile, nodding her head toward the rowdier officers singing and leaning against the bar.

"Actually, we're a bit more common in Cornwall," Joe says. "Police don't have their own exclusive pubs there. We have to hangout and drink with all the locals, fishermen mostly."

Stirling laughs.

_What a beautiful sound_, thinks Joe.

"That's too bad," she says, playing with her half empty glass of water. "These Bristol boys have all the perks. Jammy bastards."

Joe laughs. He likes her.

For the next half-hour, he watches his brother try every smooth, practiced chat-up line in the playbook of the pull to get Stirling to open up. He strikes out every time.

She's happy enough to talk about current events, sports, politics, police ethics, gun control, music, movies, books, but nothing that might actually provide some hint about her personal life. And the closest Joe gets occurs as he's describing Portwenn and some of the people who live there.

"It sounds like a wonderful place," she says taking a sip of her water, her long fingers clasping the glass. "It's probably very peaceful."

"It might sound that way but we have our moments," Joe says, proceeding to tell her about the time the village's headmaster went loopy and kidnapped a classroom of primary children, forcing them to clean the beach rocks with scrub brushes.

"Next thing you know, he decides to walk into the sea," he says.

Stirling is listening to him intently, the most interest she's shown in any conversation they've had that evening.

"What were his symptoms?" she asks, interrupting Joe in mid-story.

He thinks for a moment.

"You know, I can't recall. But I remember Paul - she was the surgery receptionist at the time - when Pauline came to get me at the station, she mentioned his wee sample had turned blue."

"Porphyria," Stirling whispers.

Joe looks at her in amazement.

"That's exactly what the Doc said he had," he says, shocked she knew what it was based on so little information.

"Sounds like an intelligent GP," she says.

"He is," enthuses Joe. "Dr. Ellingham's probably one of the smartest people in Portwenn. He's been great for the village."

"Dr. Ellingham?" she asks, surprised. "Dr. Martin Ellingham?"

Joe and Stirling stare at one another in silence for a moment.

"Why? Do you know him?" asks Joe, suddenly suspicious.

"I've heard of him," she admits. "But I've never actually met him. A friend of mine told me he used to be a great surgeon."

"He still is," says Joe. "He's been taking on some cases at the hospital in Truro part-time."

"I heard he had haemophobia," Stirling says.

"Homo-what?" asks Sam.

"Haemophobia," she says patiently. "A fear of blood."

"Oh, the blood thing," says Joe. "He got over it. Don't know how but one week he's honking all over my shoes, the next he's performing surgery to save his wife's life."

Stirling is quiet for a moment, rubbing her finger along the top edge of her empty water glass.

"What about his medical practice?" she asks. "He can't possibly be able to do both."

Joe hadn't thought about that.

"I don't know what's going to happen there," he admits, feeling a shiver of worry.

_What is going to happen to the surgery if the Doc continues doing surgeries in Truro?_ he wonders.

He forgets everything as he looks across the table at Stirling, mesmerized. Her face has spread into the most beautiful smile Joe thinks he has ever seen in his life, actually overshadowing that of his ex-wife, Maggie.

"Aces!" she shouts, startling Sam, Joe and half the pub patrons. She leans across the table, grabs Joe's face in both her hands and gives him a big, long, sensuous kiss on the lips that he feels all the way down to his groin.

She tastes of sugary peppermint and smells like heaven.

Stirling is surprised to feel his lips responding to hers. She gives in to the moment, feeling an ache of desire in the pit of her stomach.

_Not good_, she thinks, pulling away.

"Thank you!" she says earnestly into Joe's eyes, inadvertently providing him an amazing view down her halter-top.

"Thank-thank-thank you," he stutters, completely flustered and a little in love.

She hops down from her chair and practically skips to the women's washroom, digging her mobile out of the back pocket of her tight shorts.

Joe is suddenly feeling extremely cocky. He leans back in his chair with his hands behind his head and smiles.

Sam looks over at him in disbelief.

"You jammy bastard," his brother says.

"You just have to know how to talk to women," Joe says in a patronizing tone, wondering what on Earth he'd done or said to deserve that level of appreciation.

_Who the hell cares_, he thinks, just as his chair falls over backward, taking him with it.

"Smooth," says Sam, looking down at him and laughing. "Really smooth."


	2. Chapter 1

Stirling lifts her goggles and wipes the dirt and sweat from her forehead with her leather jacket sleeve. She reaches back, pulling an insulated steel flask from one of the saddlebags behind her and takes several gulps of water.

It's hotter than she expected, especially considering how near the sea she is.

She glances in the sidecar beside her. Bucephalus continues to snore on his blanket, his head stretched out to rest on Stirling's rucksack. He hasn't even noticed they've stopped.

It's the view that made her apply the brakes. She passed over a hump in the road and turned a corner and there it was - breathtaking. Below her, clinging to the cliffs like a collection of brightly coloured birdhouses is a town, a village really. The most beautiful village Stirling has ever seen. Certainly more picturesque than the greyish-green hamlet she grew up near on the foggy Yorkshire moors. It's so bright and vibrant and mesmerizing.

With a honk and a swirl of dust, a car whizzes past her, waking Stirling from her trance.

Glancing at her watch, Stirling notes the time. She has 45 minutes before her appointment. Better keep moving. She puts the Triumph in gear, adjusts her goggles and continues down the hill, entering the enchanting little seaside town. As she approaches the town centre, she slows to a crawl, the streets narrowing, winding and filled with people. Holidaymakers, she notes with interest. She easily steers the Triumph around the small groups of walkers and window shoppers while avoiding cars. She notices an open area ahead between the quaint buildings and suddenly she is at a harbour, cars neatly lined up along the water's edge in a makeshift car park designed to disappear with the rising tide.

_I'd hate to be delayed getting to my vehicle_, she thinks as she steers the Triumph over to the side of what appears to be the town's high street, stopping near a small roadside cafe. Turning off the bike's ignition, Stirling unsnaps the top two closures of her light leather jacket and reaches in for her notes. She is just unfolding the paper when a commanding voice comes from behind her.

"Sir, you can't park here."

With all her riding gear on, Stirling struggles to look behind her, searching for the person who belongs to the voice.

"As you can see, this is clearly marked as a no parking area. I'm going to have to ask you to move your vehicle or I'll be forced to write you a citation."

Frustrated, Stirling pulls up her goggles and unsnaps her helmet, pulling it off in one smooth movement. She's positive her hair is standing on end, her plait frizzy and soaked with sweat from being shoved in the crash helmet for hours. But at least now she can swivel her neck.

She turns and finds herself face-to-face with a uniformed police constable. At least, she thinks he's a plod. He wears no telltale bobby hat or checkerboard peaked cap like the coppers in London. He also has no stab vest or hi-visibility jacket. Instead, he wears a blindingly white, crisply ironed short-sleeved uniform shirt with a black tie and silver shoulder numbers on black epaulettes - badge number 3021, she notes. His short dark hair is grey at the temples and his heavy dark eyebrows try their best to give his puppy dog brown eyes a severe look. He's not smiling as he grips his black notebook and pencil in hand.

Stirling's eyes widen with recognition. Suddenly, she's back in the Bristol Bobby pub a month ago, sipping a glass of ice water and chatting with Smarmy Sam (as she thinks of him) and his cute little brother ... Joe!

_He looks different in a uniform_, she think. _Even cuter, in a 'isn't he sweet, boy-next-door' kind of way_. _I never noticed before but I love his accent_.

"Hello," she says, feeling strangely awkward as he stares at her, the realization that she's not a man washing across his face. At first he looks surprised, then shocked and ultimately embarrassed.

"I, I, I beg your pardon, miss," he stutters, looking somewhat abashed at his mistake. He looks around, as if ensuring no one has overheard his gaff.

Stirling smiles. He doesn't recognize her.

_He looks like a dog that's been caught digging in the garden_, she thinks.

"No problem. It's hard with the goggles, the helmet and the jacket. Actually, I'm glad you stopped. I'm hoping you can help me."

The constable is all officiousness again.

"You need to move the bike," he says, trying hard to look stern but not really succeeding. He looks at her more closely. "You do have a driving licence for this vehicle?"

"Yes I do," says Stirling, an edge to her voice.

_What is it with men and motorcycles?_ she thinks. _They never believe a woman can actually control one_.

"May I see it please," he commands in a clipped tone.

Stirling feels an argument welling in her throat but she pushes it back with a deep breath.

_Humour him_, she thinks. _Just humour him_.

She reaches into the sidecar for her rucksack, wrestling it out from under Bucephalus' head. With a snort and a grunt he awakes and glares up at her.

As Stirling digs in the side pocket of the bag for her wallet, the dog sits up with a yawn and a shake so powerful it rattles the sidecar and shifts the Triumph slightly. The shriek that follows causes Stirling to drop her wallet in alarm.

"WHAT is THAT!" Joe demands, backing away while clawing at his duty belt, digging for his pepper spray.

"It's a dog," says Stirling wryly, bending over to retrieve her fallen property. "I have a licence for him as well."

She's surprised to hear a sprinkling of laughter and looks over to find a handful of people seated at the roadside cafe watching the action.

_Great, now I'm part of the dinner entertainment_, she thinks.

Stirling pulls her licence from its sleeve and holds it out to the constable. He seems hesitant to touch it, his eyes glued on Bucephalus.

"He won't hurt you," she assures him.

"Are you sure that's not a pony?" he asks nervously, stepping forward slowly to take the paper from her. "I'm not very keen on horses."

He scrutinizes the slip.

"I see you're down from London," he says. "That's a long trip. Just yourself?"

"And the pony," she says, nodding to the hulking form in the sidecar.

"Left the hubby and kiddies at home?" he asks.

"I'm not married; no children."

"Stir-ling," he says, reading from the slip of paper. "That's an interesting name."

He's quiet for a moment, staring at the licence, and then looks up at her, his eyes widening.

"Stirling," he says again.

"Yeah, that's my name," she says, smiling, enjoying his confusion and discomfort.

He's really staring at her now and she stares back.

"Hi, Joe," she says, giving him a little wave.

Suddenly, Joe's back in the Bristol Bobby pub with Sam, kissing a beautiful singer with auburn hair and being treated to a fantastic view down her shirt. He's thought of that night and that woman many times in the past month, wondering what she's doing, whether she ever thinks of him. And now she's sitting in front of him, on the main street of Portwenn, on a motorcycle, a dog the size of a work horse sitting in the sidecar.

"Stirling," Joe says for the third time. He doesn't know what to say. "Is that a family name or did they call you after the silver?"

_You git!_ he thinks.

"It was my father's," Stirling answers. "I was supposed to be a boy."

_Why did I tell him that?_ she wonders.

"You're definitely not a boy," Joe says with a slightly lecherous smile. "Although at first I did think you one. But I couldn't tell really with the helmet and the jacket and the - "

He's running off at the mouth and he knows it. He clears his throat and gets back to the business at hand.

"I can't believe you're here. What brings you to Portwenn?" he asks, handing her back the licence.

Stirling slips it back into her wallet and throws the rucksack into the sidecar. She's suddenly feeling shy.

"I have an appointment at the surgery. I was hoping you could point me in the right direction."

Joe looks surprised, like she's asked him directions to the local crack hangout.

"The surgery? You're here to see the Doc?"

"Yes."

"Are you ill?" he asks, looking very concerned. He steps forward as if he expects Stirling to fall in a faint from the Triumph. Suddenly, she's concerned too.

"Do I look ill?" she asks, worry in her voice. That's all she needs - to look like she has the lurgy during her interview.

"No, no," the officer says emphatically. "You look right fit. Very tidy."

Stirling looks up sharply. A bright red blush is scaling the police constable's neck and face; his cheeks are flaming, and his eyes are squeezed shut in what appears to be mortified embarrassment. He opens them, and gives an apologetic look.

Loud snorts of laughter emanate from the cafe.

"What I mean is, you look ... well."

As Stirling sits there waiting for Joe to recover his dignity, a gang of teenage girls saunters past, all dressed in cut-off jean shorts, halter-tops and way too much make-up.

"Oooooo Constable," says one pony-tailed blonde with cherry red lipstick and garish blue eye shadow. "You've finally caught a girlfriend."

She turns to Stirling and bats her eyelashes. "He's a right proper shagger."

The patrons of the cafe erupt into shouts of laughter as the tittering girls saunter past on their way to the beach and the surfers.

Stirling is gobsmacked. Joe has now turned an indescribable shade of purple and looks like he's about to do a runner.

"The surgery?" she asks, hoping to get an answer before he bolts.

"Yes, yes," he practically shouts. He gestures to the road in front of them. "You go straight here. Up that hill and it's on the left hand side, small dark stone building, grey and white trim around the windows. There's a brass plaque on the wall. You can't miss it."

"Thanks," Stirling says quickly, donning her helmet and starting the Triumph with a roar. She has to get away from this weirdness. Plus she's late.

As Stirling rides up to the surgery, Joe follows her route with his eyes. He watches her park the bike on the front stone terrace, stow her helmet and grab her rucksack from the sidecar before entering the building. He stands for another few moments gazing wistfully up the hill before heaving a lonely sigh and continuing on his rounds. He does his best to ignore the hoots and catcalls echoing behind him.


	3. Chapter 2

Stepping into the Portwenn surgery is like stepping back in time for Stirling. The scent of musty drapes and stale medicine, the dull carpet, the grey walls - suddenly she's a tear-stained 10 year old and old Dr. Farnon is trying his best to explain the mysterious workings of viral meningitis. She gasps at the memory; it's so vivid. She gasps again as she turns and finds herself face-to-face with a thin brunette with dancing brown eyes, a snub nose and pink feathers poking from her hair.

"Hello," says Stirling, quickly recovering from the fright and sticking out her right hand. "I'm Dr. Stirling Aylesworth. I have a 3 o'clock appointment with Dr. Ellingham."

The perky brunette, who Stirling quickly realizes must be only in her late teens or early 20s, gives her a quick once over.

"I'm Morwenna Newcross," she says, giving her hand a quick solid shake. "I'm the surgery receptionist."

_She looks more like the resident pixie_, thinks Stirling, taking in the pink leggings and fluttery, see-through blouse layered over what appears to be three separate spaghetti-strapped undershirts. _It's definitely an original look_.

Morwenna pauses and looks uncertainly at Stirling.

"Are you planning on going in kitted up like that?"

Stirling blushes. She's still wearing her gear - blue jeans, black leather full chaps, a novelty T-shirt with "Keep calm and call the Doctor" printed on it, a long light-weight leather jacket and chunky biker boots.

"Oh no. I'm hoping I can make a quick visit to your loo."

Morwenna gives a look that clearly shows she doesn't believe Stirling can pull off the kind of beauty miracle required in the amount of time available and gestures to a small door located under the staircase.

"Thank you," says Stirling and quickly ducks inside with her rucksack, closing the door firmly behind her.

Ten minutes later, she's out.

_Five minutes to spare_, Stirling thinks with a half smile as she glances at her watch.

Morwenna, now entrenched behind her receptionist's desk, stares in disbelief. The transformation is amazing. Biker babe to polished professional with a healthy dose of equestrian flair in 10 minutes. Not bad.

"I'm impressed," she gushes, twirling her pink tufted pen.

"I've had lots of practice," Stirling admits, smoothing her jodhpur tweeds. "I used to be a singer in a band. I would finish my medical rounds and practical work and then grab a cab to whatever gig we were playing. I became very adept at changing from medical scrubs to my costume in the backseat of a hackney carriage."

Morwenna's eyes shine with excitement.

"You were in a band?"

"That's how I managed to pay the bills," says Stirling.

She glances nervously at her watch again.

"I would have been here earlier but I was way laid by the police constable."

"That would be PC Joseph Penhale," says Morwenna. "Don't worry, he's harmless. Comes across all mean and tough but he's all puppy dog underneath."

_Puppy dog_, thinks Stirling with a smile. _Good analogy_.

She rubs nervously at a slight scuff on one of her tall riding boots. She needs to be calm; calm and collected.

"Don't let him rattle you," Christopher had warned her. "And he'll try. He's famous for putting other doctor's through the wringer. In his mind, no one is as talented as he is when it comes to medicine. Be forceful, direct, honest and blunt. Don't be evasive and don't try to kiss up - as if you would even know how. And if you show any weakness, any doubt, any uncertainty, he'll go for the jugular. After all, he was a vascular surgeon."

_Sounds charming_, thinks Stirling wryly.

She's not intimidated by bullying doctors. She's worked and trained with some of the meanest and the finest there is. That doesn't worry her. It's the gap in her references that bothers her. She knows they'll bring it up; every interviewer has so far. And that's when everything usually goes pear shaped.

Stirling hears murmuring from behind a door at the back of the surgery followed by the movement of chairs and footsteps. The door opens and a pale, pinched faced young man exits, sweat dripping down his forehead. He looks like he actually has the lurgy. He's followed by a short, balding fellow with a pleasant round face and glasses. He's a bit on the chubby side with a slightly rumpled suit. But it's the final figure through the doorway that attracts Stirling's attention. Tall, imposing and stern faced, the great Dr. Martin Ellingham embodies everything she has ever heard about him. His short-cropped blonde hair has silvered but his figure is still youthful, filling out an impeccable pinstriped bespoke Savile Row suit with style. He is immaculately attired from his silk red tie and crisp white dress shirt down to his dark socks and shiny black dress shoes.

_He and the police constable obviously use the same dry cleaner_, Stirling thinks, watching the three men trade parting pleasantries before the pale young man shuffles away, appearing to have been wounded in the job interview joust.

Stirling stands, refusing to charge into battle with a physical disadvantage.

"Dr. Aylesworth?" asks the round-faced man, approaching with an outstretched hand. "Chris Parsons. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," says Stirling, grasping his hand firmly and shaking it strongly.

"This is Dr. Martin Ellingham," says Parsons, referring to the commanding figure behind him. "He is the current GP here in Portwenn."

"A pleasure to finally meet you, Dr. Ellingham," Stirling says, stepping forward to shake his hand. His gaze is stern and unreadable, his face a mask of zero emotion, except perhaps a slight hint of disdain. Stirling stares him in the icy blue eyes without a flinch as they shake hands with a firm squeeze. "I've heard a lot about you."

"I'm sure it was all terrible," Dr. Ellingham says, the timber and inflection of his voice similar to that of the numerous haughty, privileged Eton boys Stirling was forced to dance with and entertain at school functions.

"Not all of it," she says as she enters the back office, which she sees is actually a doctor's consulting room. The desk, medical furniture and equipment are pushed back to the walls, allowing for a small seating area in the middle of the room. Stirling takes the offered chair and sets her bag beside it.

"Can I offer you a tea or coffee?" asks Parsons, who is obviously playing the role of Mother.

_Dr. Ellingham must be playing the bad cop_, Stirling thinks with a slight smile.

"I'd like a glass of ice water please, if that isn't too much bother."

"Make that two," adds Dr. Ellingham, settling elegantly into a padded desk chair across from Stirling.

Parsons gives the drink orders to Morwenna and sits down in the remaining chair.

"I understand you drove down from London for this interview," he says, picking up one of two thick file folders from the table between them. "That's a long journey. You must be tired."

"I split it into several days," explains Stirling. "It provided me a chance to enjoy some of the countryside along the way. I've never been down to this part of the country. I thought I would make the most of the opportunity. Luckily, the weather has been wonderful."

With a polite knock, Morwenna pushes open the door and enters with the tray of refreshments, which she sets carefully on the small table. She smiles shyly at Stirling and gives her a wink before leaving the room.

"As you've never been to Cornwall or Portwenn before and have no experience with the area, why are you interested in settling here?" asks Dr. Ellingham. "What makes you think you could even fit in here?"

The question is brusque, direct and bordering on rude. She expected nothing less.

"I grew up on the moors of Yorkshire, the birthplace of the Brontes," explains Stirling, relaxing deeper into her chair. "I thought I'd give DuMaurier's mystical Bodmin Moor a try."

_Too cheeky, you idiot_, she thinks.

"Urban life is just not for me," she adds quickly. "I understand the climate here is more temperate than elsewhere in the country and the winters aren't too cold. And I do have a fondness for moors."

Dr. Ellingham's face is unreadable as he gazes at her. He leans forward to pick up the remaining file folder.

"Yorkshire," he says, leafing through the various documents stuffed inside. "You have no accent."

"After four years at boarding school, they finally beat it out of me," Stirling says with a smile.

"Yes, I've read your education history. Impressive. National awards. A double scholarship to the finest girls school in Britain. Top athlete. High academic achievement. Advanced placement at Imperial College. Top marks in medical school. Your parents must be proud," Dr. Ellingham says with a sneer.

"Well, I'd like to think they would be, that is if they hadn't died when I was 10."

_Too direct and too emotional_, thinks Stirling, surprised by the mental sting resulting from Dr. Ellingham's verbal jab.

"Yes, well, tell us about your medical and hospital experience," interjects Parsons quickly.

Stirling recaps her training and familiarity with medical procedures, highlighting some of her responsibilities and key achievements while also dropping the names of the more distinguished doctors she's worked with. This is subject matter she feels comfortable with and she easily answers every question lobbed her way. She even summarizes a sampling of journal articles she has written or contributed to, including a few that reference some of Dr. Ellingham's past work.

"It states here you trained in Infectious Disease under Dr. Albert Nelson at St. Thomas'," says Dr. Ellingham, looking down at his folder. "But your interview submission contains no reference from Dr. Nelson and your employment history shows you never obtained consultant status."

He looks up at her.

"You were mere months away from being able to apply but you didn't. Why is that?"

Stirling's heart sinks. Every interview, every single one of the more than 20 she has sat through in the past two months all went to hell when they reached this point in her employment and training history. She looks down at her hands and takes a deep, steadying breath.

_Be forceful, direct, honest and blunt_, she thinks. _Don't be evasive_. _If you show any weakness, any doubt, any uncertainty, he'll go for the jugular_.

Stirling looks up from her lap and stares Dr. Ellingham in the eye.

"My records show no reference from Chief Nelson because he died before he could write it," she says calmly, fighting back the emotion she can feel beginning to build in her throat. "After he died, I was unable to complete my consultancy requirements."

He nods slightly and sits silently in thought for a moment.

"But you could have easily changed mentors and finished the requirements," says Dr. Ellingham smoothly. His brow furrows slightly in a quizzical look.

_He really is puzzled_, she realizes._ Maybe he doesn't know_.

"Yes, I could have transferred to finish my training under a different chief but I was physically unable to complete the consultancy requirements," she answers, dreading the follow up she knows is coming.

"Why?"

Over the past 12 months, Stirling has grown to hate that word. Why? Why? Why? It echoes in her head over and over and over again - endlessly. Most frustrating of all is she has no real answer. She can only try to explain.

"I was unable to finish my consultant qualifications because I contracted MERS - Middle Eastern respiratory syndrome coronavirus - and spent two months in isolation within St. Thomas' infectious disease ward," Stirling says quietly. "When I recovered, I was informed that I could no longer safely work in a hospital or urban environment. The damage to my lungs is such that I am predisposed to chest infections, bronchitis and pneumonia. And there's not much demand for an infectious disease consultant who cannot work in a hospital setting."

Her explanation is met by silence.

"I was advised that if I wanted to continue in medicine, I should retrain as a GP, which I did with Honours, as you can see from my records. It was suggested I try for a rural practice, preferably near the sea air. And here I am."

The two medical men remain quiet. Parsons looks down at his notes, shaking his head slightly. Dr. Ellingham is motionless, his eyes locked on hers, his face unreadable. Or is it? Stirling's not positive but for a moment, she thinks she sees a look of understanding in his eyes. And then it is gone.

"You do realize that as a GP you are still required to treat people with respiratory infections and diseases, people who could very well be infectious," says Parsons.

"Of course," Stirling answers quickly. "I typically treat respiratory patients masked, which I know is not ideal but workable. I also follow a prophylactic treatment regime involving immunity boosters combined with a puffer for emergencies."

Parsons nods and makes a quick note in his folder.

"How did you contract MERS?" asks Dr. Ellingham, who has taken no notes at any point in the interview.

"From a patient at St. Thomas'," answers Stirling, her stomach filling with dread.

"But weren't you following hospital isolation protocols, wearing full body barrier suits and face protection?"

Stirling fights back the tears she can feel stinging behind her eyes. It's torturous to relive the nightmare. But every job interview, she does.

"My isolation suit was compromised," she says.

Parsons looks up quickly from his notes and stares at her.

"Spencer Graham," he blurts out. "Dr. Spencer Graham."

Stirling knows the interview is over. And she thought it was going so well, a bit rough at the beginning but then she rallied and hopefully impressed. Now all that's left to discuss is a salacious murder case and tawdry gossip.

Dr. Ellingham turns to Parsons with a quizzical glare.

"What?"

"Dr. Spencer Graham, Martin," he says, gesturing toward Stirling. "She's one of the victims of Dr. Spencer Graham."

Stirling's reaction is immediate.

"I am not a victim!" she shouts, rising to her feet, enraged at the thought he would refer to her that way, in those terms. She reaches down for her bag, tossing a strap regally over her shoulder. "It's quite obvious this interview is over. Thank you for your time."

She swivels majestically on her toes and heads for the door.

"What the hell is going on here?" shouts Dr. Ellingham, also rising to his feet. "You, Dr. Elwood, stop right there," he says, stretching out his arm and snapping his fingers in Stirling's direction.

"It's Dr. Aylesworth," she says icily, gritting her teeth with anger. But she halts, curious to see what will happen next. She knows she's ruined her chances of earning the position but the scientist - or maybe the masochist - in her wants to observe the end reaction.

Dr. Ellingham turns to Parsons.

"What the hell is it you are going on about, Chris?"

Parsons glances sheepishly at Stirling, who glares back, folding her arms across her chest.

"Honestly Martin, sometimes I swear you live under a rock," he says. "About a year ago, four people at St. Thomas' - two doctors, a senior nurse and a medical student I believe - became exposed to MERS while treating a patient who had recently returned from the Middle East. It was discovered that all of their isolation suits and breathing apparatus had somehow malfunctioned, allowing in contaminated air. All of them contracted the virus. Only one of them lived."

Both Parsons and Dr. Ellingham turn to look at Stirling, then back at one another.

"The hospital launched an investigation and it was discovered the suits had been tampered with, basically sabotaged," continues Parsons. "The damage was so well camouflaged, the suits made it past a regular maintenance inspection. The hospital brought Scotland Yard in to investigate. Ultimately, it was found that an interning doctor in the department had a mental breakdown. He sabotaged the suits in some twisted plot to punish a fellow doctor he felt had treated him unfairly."

The room is silent.

Parsons turns to Stirling.

"You were the target, weren't you?" he asks.

Stirling can feel tears teetering at the edges of her eyelids. The stinging in her nose is almost unbearable. She takes deep breaths, struggling to keep it under control.

_Don't show any weakness_, she chants in her head. _Don't show any weakness_.

She raises her chin and looks at both men in turn.

"Thank you very much for the opportunity of interviewing for this position," she manages to choke out.

She opens the door and walks out.

Morwenna looks down quickly at the large appointment book lying open in front of her.

_She's quick but not quick enough_, thinks Stirling as she strides purposefully toward the front door. _She probably heard all of it_.

Stirling pauses for a moment and turns to the young woman.

"It was a pleasure meeting you Morwenna," she says pleasantly. "Thank you for the refreshment."

The perky receptionist gives her a sad little smile.

"It was nice meeting you, Doc Stirling," she says. "Good luck."

With the sound of raised voices echoing from the back consultant room ringing in her ears, Stirling proudly marches out the front door.


	4. Chapter 3

An hour later, sitting at a quiet corner table in the roadside cafe, Stirling doesn't feel so confident.

"What a fucking cock-up," she mutters, glancing at the menu open before her. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"

A mother struggling to feed a stubborn, squirming toddler looks at her sharply from an adjacent table.

"Sorry," Stirling says sheepishly.

She turns back to the menu but all she can think of is the interview, the horrible, terrible, catastrophic interview. After she discovered through the police constable there might be an opening for a GP in Portwenn, she had contacted Christopher. He lobbied so hard for her to make it into the final candidates; she knows he did. And now she's made a dog's dinner of it.

She looks over the small, curtained barrier marking the cafe from the sidewalk to check on Bucephalus. He lies sprawled beside the Triumph, his water dish nearby.

Stirling smiles as she remembers Joe's reaction to him.

_Are you sure that's not a pony?_ she thinks in a scared, deep voice. _Right!_

But as Stirling watches the dog sleep, she can see the pony-like resemblance: the big black patches, the long coltish Great Dane legs.

_And children have been known to ride him_, she mentally admits. _Plus, he's named after a horse_.

Maybe Joe is right - he is a glorified pony.

_Forget about Joe_, she thinks to herself crossly.

A pony-tailed waitress approaches her table and Stirling is shocked to see it's the crude-mouthed blonde who led the gaggle of giggling girls from earlier in the day.

"What can I getcha?" she asks, her accent heavy, her eyes bored.

Stirling realizes Blondie doesn't recognize her.

"I'll have the quiche special," she says, scanning the menu again. "Plus four cheeseburgers, nothing on them."

The waitress looks up sharply from her notepad.

"Four!" she says incredulously.

"Four."

"Crikey! You must be right peckish," Blondie answers, scribbling madly.

"And a glass of ice water," adds Stirling, closing the menu.

"In a chivvy," the waitress says, sauntering off.

Stirling glances around the cafe, which has emptied from earlier in the day. A few parties are gathered at some of the larger tables, including what appears to be a multifamily grouping enjoying the area's famous fish and chips. There are also a few couples scattered about the cafe plus some motherly-types with children. She is the only person eating alone.

It's then she notices the young girl hunched over in her chair, her fingers scraping madly around in her mouth. Her eyes are wide with fear. She's sitting with the family group where most of the adults are busy dealing with the more boisterous youngsters. No one at the table is noticing her distress.

Stirling moves quickly. She jumps the small barrier and runs across the street to the Triumph, forcing the driver of a small compact car to pound on his brakes, horn blaring. She grabs her soft-sided doctor's bag, clipped to one of the grommets on the bike's saddlebags. She races back, ignoring the screams of the irate driver who is threatening police action.

_Go ahead_, she thinks. _That will save me from having to contact them_.

She launches herself back over the cafe barrier and heads for the party table.

About 45 seconds has passed and the little girl is even more panicked. She is scrabbling madly at her throat, her fingernails drawing blood. She is just beginning to wail when Stirling reaches her.

She turns to the adult seated closest to the child.

"This little girl has a bone stuck in her throat. I need your help."

The man pales visibly but jumps up. Following Stirling's instructions, he grabs the youngster from behind, pinning her arms down to her sides. He sits back on his chair with the girl on his lap, holding her tightly as the youngster struggles and screams.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" a woman demands from further down the table.

"What's her name?" Stirling asks the man wrestling with the child.

"Emily," he chokes, beginning to become distraught.

Stirling turns to the table and clears a section with one swipe of her arm; dishes, cutlery and glasses smash to the concrete. She throws down her bag, unzips it and flips it open. She quickly grabs a small flashlight and rips open a Velcro pocket, pulling out a pair of crocodile forceps.

Meanwhile, the rest of the table and other patrons in the restaurant are becoming concerned.

"David, what are you doing to Emily?" a woman shouts.

"Let go of her!" a teenager screams, beginning to cry.

"What's going on?" another lady shouts from a nearby table.

Ignoring them all, Stirling turns to the little girl and gives her a big smile.

"Hi Emily," she says softly to the thrashing child. "My name's Stirling. I need you to stop moving, okay? You have to sit still for me to be able to help you."

Pandemonium is beginning to break out in the cafe and Stirling can hear a siren in the distance.

"Emily, please look at me," she says, her voice calm and soft. "Your throat hurts, doesn't it?"

Emily begins to still just as Stirling feels an angry hand grab her arm. She wrenches it free, stumbling to her knees. She quickly stands up and takes a deep breath.

"BE QUIET," she yells as loud as she can.

All noise and movement in the cafe ceases; even Emily stops struggling.

"This little girl has a fish bone caught in her throat," Stirling states clearly and calmly.

There's a collective gasp.

"Call the Doc," someone yells.

"I'm a doctor," Stirling continues. "Please give me some room so I can help her."

The siren is getting closer.

The mob moves back and Stirling squats down in front of Emily.

"Your throat hurts, right?" she asks.

The little girl nods.

"I can make the hurt go away but I need you to help me. Can you tip back your head and open your mouth up big and wide? Just like an alligator."

Emily nods again, her eyes wide and scared. She opens her mouth as wide as possible.

Stirling grabs a stainless steel tongue depressor and presses down on Emily's tongue.

"It's okay, flower. I just need to move your tongue to get a better look. Keep your mouth open wide."

The siren wails to silence as a police vehicle jolts to a stop beside the cafe.

Stirling snaps on the flashlight and puts the handle in her mouth. Using her tongue to manipulate the light, she points the beam so it shines down Emily's throat. She can just see the tip of a white bone sticking out of the little girl's left tonsil. Bleeding furrows can also be seen in her throat where another fish bone has scraped its way down. Nasty.

Raised voices can be heard in the background but Stirling shuts them out, concentrating instead on holding down Emily's tongue while keeping the flashlight on target. She reaches into the little girl's throat with the crocodile forceps.

_Careful. Careful_, she thinks, edging the forceps closer to the tonsil.

Stirling opens the forceps and pinches them on the bone tip. She slowly begins to pull and the object edges out of the soft tissue. It's big.

With a triumphant sigh, she pulls the forceps out, the bloodied bone firmly grasped. She spits out the flashlight and removes the tongue depressor.

"Got it!"

A spontaneous cheer erupts from the assembled crowd.

As Stirling begins to stand, a guttural sound comes from deep within Emily's throat. With an echoing belch, masticated fish, chips and a health dollop of blood and mucus erupt from the little girl's mouth, splattering Stirling's jacket, blouse and tweed jodhpurs. Several large chunks land on her boots.

_At least it wasn't the face_, she thinks.

She backs her way to the table as people push in to crowd around Emily. A dark haired lady weeps openly as she rocks the little girl in her arms. The man who held the child during the procedure is also crying.

_Must be mom and dad_, Stirling thinks as she grabs a handful of wipes from the table in a feeble attempt to clean off the vomit. She knows it's hopeless.

She stows the equipment and zips up her case, beginning to inch her way out of the fray along the cafe table. She finally manages to squeeze out the other side of the crowd and comes face-to-face with a panting Dr. Ellingham.

He silently appraises her vomited covered attire, his face its typical emotionless mask.

"I received a call about a medical emergency at the cafe," he says in his usual haughty tone. "I ran all the way down here only to discover I'm not needed."

"She's going to require follow-up," Stirling says, switching to debrief mode. "Her left tonsil has a deep puncture and her throat has been abraded, most likely from another bone she actually managed to swallow. She'll probably need a course of antibiotics to prevent infection. Maybe even a referral to an ENT to thoroughly assess the tonsils."

Dr. Ellingham nods his head slowly, all the while staring at her. He glances over to the family still crowded around Emily. Most of the other cafe patrons have dispersed. A few are gathered in a corner talking to the police constable.

"Come with me," he says, striding over to the family group.

"My name is Dr. Ellingham," he says confidently. "I'm the village GP. I need to take a quick look in ..."

He turns to Stirling.

"Emily," she says.

"Yes, a quick look in Emily's mouth."

The dark-haired woman nods, sniffling and wiping at her tears.

Opening his own doctor's bag, Dr. Ellingham removes a tongue depressor and flashlight. He bends down before Emily and, with just a look, has her mouth open. He shines his light around the tonsils and down the throat, taking in the damage.

He grunts.

"Where do you live?" he asks, standing.

"Bude," the man manages to choke out. He turns to Stirling. "Thank you so much, miss. You saved our Emily's life."

"Now let's not get carried away," quips Dr. Ellingham.

Stirling fights back a smile.

He turns to the mother and father.

"I recommend you take Erin to your family physician as soon as possible to have him assess the situation. She'll probably need antibiotics to protect against infection. If he has any questions, he's welcome to contact me."

"Her throat will be a bit sore and raw for the next few days. Soft foods, nothing crunchy or raw."

And with another grunt, he turns and walks away.

"Dr. Aylesworth," he calls over his shoulder.

"She might need to be seen by an ENT," Stirling adds with an apologetic smile to the family and a little wave to Emily. She turns and trots after him.

"Her name is Emily," she says, catching up with him.

"What?" he asks as he leaves the cafe and begins walking toward the surgery.

"The little girl, her name is Emily, not Erin."

He grunts.

"Uhm, where are we going?" she asks, puzzled.

Dr. Ellingham stops and faces her.

"We're going back to the surgery. You and I are going to have a proper conversation."

Stirling is suddenly petrified.

"I need to get my bike," she blurts, referring vaguely over her shoulder. "I'm also covered in bloody vomit."

His brow furrows in confusion.

"Your bike? You rode here on a bicycle all the way from London?"

Stirling stifles a laugh at the mental picture that comes to mind.

"No, a motorcycle. A Triumph."

She points to the bike and sidecar parked in the distance.

He grunts.

_This must be a common form of communication for him_, Stirling thinks. _If only I knew what it meant_.

"Get your things. You can change when you get to the surgery."

As she turns to retrieve her bike, she bumps into Joe.

"We meet again," says Stirling.

He gives her a puzzled look. He obviously doesn't recognize her.

_This guy has a lousy memory for a copper_, she thinks.

"Doc," he yells at the swiftly receding back. "Doc, I need your statement."

Dr. Ellingham stops and turns.

"I wasn't involved," he says, pointing at Stirling. "You need a statement from Dr. Aylesworth."

The constable looks even more confused.

"Who's Dr. Aylesworth?" he shouts after the doctor.

She taps him on the shoulder.

"I am," says Stirling with a smile, holding out her left hand. "Dr. Stirling Aylesworth, formerly - hopefully - of London."

Joe looks at her amazed.

"You're a doctor? I thought you were a singer."

"I was the night you met me. But I am also a medical doctor," she explains.

"I'm confused. Why would a doctor sing in a pub band?"

"Sometimes you have to do strange things to pay the bills," she says, turning to walk back toward Bucephalus and the Triumph. "At that time, I was between medical appointments."

"Sam's never going to believe this," he says, falling into step beside her.

Stirling laughs. Joe loves that sound.

"I was talking with a couple of blokes from the cafe," he says. "That was quite something you did for that little girl."

"Thanks," she says. "I was just doing my job."

"So you're a GP," Joe says, still having a hard time believing it. "And you're a friend of the Doc's? I thought you told me you hadn't met him before?"

"I hadn't. I met him for the first time just this afternoon," she explains. "It didn't go so well. But it seems that fate has provided me with a second chance."

The streets are much quieter than earlier in the day and Stirling notices the light is beginning to wane. She glances at her watch - 6 p.m. It's getting late.

As they turn the street corner, she can see Bucephalus waiting by the Triumph. Beside him is the pony-tailed blonde from the cafe.

"There you are," the girl says, her voice tinged with attitude. "I thought I was going to wait here all night."

She hands Stirling a large brown paper bag, patches of which are discoloured with grease.

"The quiche special and four cheeseburgers, plain."

The police constable gives a low whistle.

"And I thought I could pack it away," he says. "Impressive."

Stirling gives him a dirty look. Without a word, she opens the bag and unwraps one of the burgers. With a flick of her wrist, she tosses it to Bucephalus, who catches it easily. A few chews later, it's gone. The other three burgers quickly follow.

"Blow me," says Joe, taking a step back, as if afraid the dog will eat him next.

Stirling turns to the blonde.

"How much do I owe you?"

"Your bill's been settled," the young girl says, twirling her pony-tail with her finger. "That family from Bude paid for it. Plus all the dishes you broke. Beastly tippers."

And with a toss of her hair, she walks back to the cafe.

"Well, that was right nice of them," says Joe, still eyeing the dog warily.

"Yes, it was," she says quietly, feeling humble.

With a snap of Stirling's fingers, Bucephalus leaps nimbly into the sidecar, circles twice and lies down with a sigh.

"Smart dog."

"Yes, he is," says Stirling, turning to the constable. "It was a pleasure seeing you again, Joe. Hopefully, we'll see each other more often. I mean, around town," she adds quickly.

"Hopefully," he says and smiles. "I hope your second chance goes well."

_I was right_, thinks Stirling as she snaps on her helmet and kick starts the Triumph. _He is cute when he smiles. And such lovely laugh lines_.

She roars the bike around the corner and back to the surgery.

And once again, Joe follows her route with his eyes, gazing wistfully up the hill after her. He heaves a sigh and heads back to his vehicle.

He's half way there when he remembers he never did get her statement.


	5. Chapter 4

Later that night, Stirling lies on a strange mattress, staring up at the ceiling of her new home.

_I'm going to be a doctor again_, she thinks with a smile.

"I'm going to be a doctor again!" she shouts out loud, rolling over and screaming into her pillow, flailing her arms and legs against the mattress in a fit of unbridled excitement.

Bucephalus raises his head and stares at her from his resting place on a mat nearby. He yawns and goes back to sleep.

_There's so much to do_, thinks Stirling, rolling back to stare at the ceiling.

First off, she needs to arrange to have her remaining belongings shipped down from London, which will be complicated considering she won't be there to direct the operation. She considers asking Christopher for help. But he's already done so much.

She will also need to buy a proper bed, considering she's lying on a mattress on the floor of the surgery's master bedroom.

_A big bed with lots of room to sprawl out_, she thinks with a smile. _The biggest bed there is. No more roll-away beds, cots, sofa beds, blow-up mattresses, sleeping bags or chesterfields_.

Her evening with Dr. Ellingham went well. Certainly not a natural conversationalist, he had struggled to ask her questions about her education and medical experience. But he became more comfortable with time and even had her share her ideas and thoughts on current research and trends in the field.

They had talked for so long, his wife, Louisa, had popped over with their son, James, to make sure everything was okay. They just lived in the house next door to the surgery. Within minutes of meeting Louisa, Stirling found herself having dinner with the Ellinghams, her cold quiche destined to be a late night snack for Bucephalus.

As a couple, the Ellinghams were a study in contrasts. He was sullen and silent; she was gregarious and open. Yet Stirling sensed there was a feeling of deep affection between them, not publicly displayed but just peeking out from under the surface. Louisa would periodically touch the doctor's arm or hand as she talked or the doctor would place his hand on her back as he passed her. They were subtle signals but Stirling saw the connection. She was envious of their ease with one another.

They had talked of Portwenn, the people who called it home and the primary school where Louisa was headmistress. Dr. Ellingham had said little, although he did add the occasional grunt, but Louisa, who had obviously grown up in the town and returned here after her education, told Stirling all about the residents, the small fishing fleet, the importance of the lifeboat station, the history of the town. She added there had been many changes and advancements over the years, including the construction of a modern library and a recreation centre.

"The shopping is a bit limited," Louisa admitted. "But there's always fresh fish at the harbour and fruit and vegetables at the grocery store."

James, who had just turned two a month previously, was a lot of fun, throwing more food than he ate and jabbering away with joy, throwing in the odd decipherable word. His blonde hair and big blue eyes left no doubt about the identity of his father, who was kept busy cleaning up after him while Louisa ignored the mess, intent on entertaining their guest.

_Definitely a study in contrasts_, Stirling thought.

"Have you had a chance to see much of the town?" Louisa asked, wiping a bit of sauce from her dress sleeve, splattered there by a laughing James.

"Not really," admitted Stirling. "I basically drove in to town and came straight to the surgery. My only other stop was for a late lunch at the cafe on the high street."

"Well, I'll have to make some time tomorrow to show you around, help you get your bearings," said Louisa, somehow convincing James to have another mouthful of pasta. "Do you know anyone in the village?"

Stirling's not quite sure exactly what Louisa means by "know."

"I've met Morwenna," she says with a smile. "And a rather rude young blonde waitress at the cafe."

"Lorna Nudds," said Louisa with a nod.

"Oh, and the police constable, Joe."

Dr. Ellingham grunted, making Stirling look up from her plate.

"The man's an idiot," he said.

"Martin!" Louisa scolded sharply.

The doctor looked at his wife with an expression of innocence.

"Well, he is," he said. "That moron couldn't find sand in a desert. He is quite possibly the most inept police constable in all of Britain."

Stirling stares in disbelief at Dr. Ellingham. This is probably the most she's heard him speak since the meal started.

"He seemed perfectly capable when I met him," she said, inadvertently thinking back to that night in Bristol and their passionate kiss. "He appeared to know what he was doing."

The doctor grunted again and returned to his meal.

After dinner, she and Dr. Ellingham had retired to his home office while Louisa prepared James for bed. The room was small, just large enough for the doctor's modern desk and chair plus two leather arm chairs in front of a small fireplace. Two bookcases, crammed full of medical reference books and journals, stood on either side of a large window, which looked out onto the Ellingham's back garden. The desk faced the window, allowing whoever sat there an unhindered view of any activities going on amongst the play equipment and toys scattered around the grass.

Stirling smiled to herself as she sat in one of the arm chairs, imagining Dr. Ellingham watching his young son play while he reviewed patient files. The doctor took the chair across from her.

"After hearing all of that," he said, referring out the door toward the dining room, "are you still interested in working at a medical surgery in Portwenn?"

"Yes," said Stirling with no hesitation.

He looked at her quietly for a few moments.

"You do realize this place is nothing like London," he warned. "There is little to no cultural happenings, no clubs, no museums or art galleries, very little entertainment, except for the odd fete or two during the summer. And the winter is incredibly boring."

Stirling decided to keep following Christopher's advice - forceful, direct, honest and blunt.

"Before today, I had been to more than 20 different job interviews all across the southern half of Britain," she said. "Norfolk, Suffolk, Dorset, Devon, West Sussex, East Sussex, Essex, Lincolnshire, Avon, Hampshire - I've been everywhere. And once they realized who I am, I was escorted out the door. I thought today was going to be the same. You proved me wrong. That doesn't happen to me very often."

Stirling leaned forward in her arm chair.

"You could tell me half the people in this town belong in a lunatic asylum, that I am required to drive an hour each way to buy food, that a coven of witches run the local pharmacy," she said. "I might even be open to the idea of no indoor plumbing. But I'd still want to come here, Chief. I want to be a doctor and you seem to be the only one willing to take a chance on me. I want and need the job."

She leaned back again.

"I won't miss London. There's not much left for me there. Just a few real friends who haven't abandoned me and a lifetime of bad memories."

Dr. Ellingham nodded his head slightly as he looked into the unlit fireplace. He cleared his throat.

"You will work for me at first, covering the surgery three days a week, the days I'm working in Truro," he explained, suddenly all business. "The other two days, you will handle house calls or anything else that may come up. You will also be responsible for all emergency calls, 24 hours a day - not that there's very many. The surgery is open for a half-day every Saturday; we'll alternate that shift so every other week you can have a full weekend free. Over time, if the surgical work proceeds as I expect it to, you will take on more of the responsibilities at the surgery. At that point, we can open negotiations with the end result being you buy the surgery from me; that is if you are still interested in it at that time."

He looked over at Stirling.

"How does that sound to you?"

Stirling nods with a smile.

"Seems fair, Chief."

The remainder of the evening had been spent discussing wages and the handling of supply purchases. She would be added to the surgery's account at the pharmacy and would be responsible for ensuring supplies were always on hand and available. This would allow Dr. Ellingham to focus all of his attention on patient care during his two days in the surgery.

He had provided her with a small pay advance plus a week to settle her affairs in London and move into the Portwenn surgery before starting work.

"Is that enough time?" he asked as she headed out the door.

"It's perfect," she said, turning back. "Thank you, Chief."

Dr. Ellingham looked uncomfortable, glancing down at the floor.

"Yes, well, yes," he muttered, clearing his throat and shuffling his feet.

_And it is perfect_, Stirling thinks as she stares up at the bedroom ceiling.

Six months ago, things had looked so bleak. No money, only part-time singing and music gigs, nothing in her actual career field, relying on friends to house and feed her. And now, maybe she can finally turn the corner, leave all of the pain, heartache and betrayal behind and start anew. Portwenn may be the end of nowhere but perhaps that's just what she needs; a different pace of life, a different perspective.

_The residents seem interesting_, she thinks, recalling Louisa's descriptions of the various people she might want to introduce herself to. One of them was Joe.

_The police constable seems to keep popping up_, she thinks, frowning as she recalls the Doc's reaction to his name.

An idiot? A moron? She saw none of that behaviour today, although the episode with the giggling girls had been awkward.

_But perhaps she's just biased_, Stirling thinks.

She owes Joe a lot. If he hadn't mentioned Portwenn and Dr. Ellingham that night in Bristol, she might never have found out about the position. She might still be sleeping in Michael and Christopher's guest bedroom, playing piano in the lobby of the Savoy during the week and singing with Duncan's band every Friday and Saturday night for a bunch of drunken Bristol bobbies.

She shudders at the thought.

Tomorrow she will phone Christopher and tell him the news. He'll know the best way to get her scant belongings from London to Portwenn. And she'll start researching the most appropriate place to buy her bed.

As Stirling finally drifts off to sleep, her dreams are full of pillows, down duvets, soft mattresses, and Portwenn's police constable.


	6. Chapter 5

The next morning, Stirling is awakened with the birds as Bucephalus incessantly licks her face. She tries her best to fight him off, covering her head with a pillow, but it is impossible to stop him. Finally she gives in, giving him a grumpy look as she climbs up from the mattress. She glances at her watch.

"It's 6:30 in the morning!" she exclaims, aiming a light kick in the dog's direction, which he easily dodges, his mouth agape in a doggy grin. "It must have been after midnight before I got to sleep."

"And the dreams! Oh my God!" she moans, staggering into the bathroom.

She glances quickly into the mirror over the sink and groans. Her hair looks like a rat's nest, a sure sign she was tossing and turning throughout the night.

She glares at her reflection and sticks her tongue out saucily.

"Stupid git!" she growls, yanking a brush through the tangled mess. "Dreaming about police constables and super-king-sized beds. What an interesting combination that turned out to be."

With some hard work and strong pulling, she manages to get most of the knots out of her hair before having a quick shower and hair wash. As she towel dries her hair, she examines the scant selection of clothing hanging in her new bedroom's wardrobe. The sidecar and saddle bags on the Triumph can hold only so much baggage and what's still clean from her trip to Portwenn is limited. She decides on a tight pair of black cotton crop pants and a sea blue sleeveless swing top. Shoes might be an issue, she realizes as she stares down at the small collection available to her. Slip on black paddock boots, black Oxfords, black biker boots or black and white trainers.

_Trainers it is_, she thinks, grabbing a pair of short socks.

She's soon ready for Bucephalus' morning romp and walks downstairs to check the kitchen for any kind of sustenance. The refrigerator contains only milk and cream for tea and coffee plus a rather stale looking sandwich. The cupboards are almost completely bare with only a few boxes of crackers and a small sleeve of chocolate dipped HobNobs. Stirling has the package ripped open in a heartbeat. She savours the chocolaty sweetness as she walks out the front door to a beautiful, sunny morning.

After a quick root in one of the Triumph's saddlebags, she finds Bucephalus' leash. She doesn't believe she'll need it but it's best to be prepared, she thinks.

Stirling glances left and then right. Which way, she wonders. Right leads them down the hill into the town. Left goes further up the hill to a sparsely populated area. She can see a slight trail leading along the edge of the cliffs high above the Celtic Sea and a large expanse of green field just to the right of the last house on the hill.

"Left it is," she says to Bucephalus and starts climbing the hill toward the green Common while stuffing another HobNob in her mouth.

_Breakfast of champions_, she thinks with a mental giggle.

The hill is a bit steep and she begins to feel a burning sensation in her lungs.

_Damn_, Stirling thinks to herself. She's left her puffer back in the surgery. She stops and looks behind her.

_I'm not going back for it_, she decides and keeps climbing.

The ground starts to level off and Bucephalus runs ahead as she walks along the cliff path. The sun is beginning to provide some warmth, helping to combat the cool breeze coming off the water. Her breathing is still a bit laboured but the burning and pressure eases in her chest.

_This will be good daily therapy_, Stirling thinks, lengthening her strides in hopes of keeping Bucephalus in sight.

Her respiratory physician urged her to keep active, nothing too strenuous, but also warned she would never be a marathon runner or high calibre athlete, not that Stirling cares. But being able to sing was important. It took her months of therapy and specialized breathing exercises with a vocal coach to be able to sing again, something her doctor claimed as a miracle. Even now, she can only handle 30 to 45 minutes of performing before she needs to rest, a handicap most bands have been willing to accommodate. Duncan jokes that is his time limit between beers anyway.

Stirling smiles at the memory as she looks ahead for Bucephalus, who appears to have disappeared over a small hill. It's then she hears the screams for help.

Since her illness, Stirling is unable to run or jog but she moves as quickly as she can toward the noise. She's breathing heavily as she reaches the top of the small rise and is treated to a bizarre sight - Bucephalus with his front paws on the shoulders of what appears to be a jogger, kitted out in running shorts, trainers and a blue hooded, long-sleeved running jacket. The man is staggering under the weight of the dog while trying to fight off the huge tongue, which is busy cleaning his face. Periodically, the man is able to avoid Bucephalus' slobbering mouth and shout for help.

Stirling is winded, bent over with her hands on her knees trying her best to catch her breath. It takes her a few moments of controlled breathing before she's able to call to her dog.

"Bucephalus! Off!"

Instantly the dog's front paws are on the ground.

"Down."

His belly thumps on the grass.

Stirling begins to walk down the hillock to check on the dishevelled jogger, who is busy wiping his slobber-covered face with the sleeve of his jacket.

"Did you just call him Beelzebub?" the man sputters. "Because that's what he is - a devil dog!"

"His name is Bucephalus," she says, finally reaching the dog and clipping on his leash. "Are you okay?"

"I think I'll live," the man says, turning toward her. "You know, I could charge you with allowing your dog to be dangerously out of control."

That's when she realizes he's Joe, the police constable who haunted her dreams the night before. Stirling feels a blush rising.

His jacket plus the white sleeveless shirt he's wearing underneath is streaked with mud from Bucephalus' filthy paws and there is still the odd blade of grass stuck to his face. The constable's normally neatly combed hair is also mussed but she's not sure whether it's from the dog attack or jogging.

"You could go to prison for six months," he says, trying to look fierce. "I might just order you to keep that creature on a leash from now on."

"I'm so sorry," Stirling says, stepping forward to wipe with her bare hands at the mud on Joe's jacket and shirt. "He's not normally this demonstrative with strangers. I know you won't believe this but, what he just did, it really is a huge compliment. He must like you."

Joe gives her a dirty look.

"If that's how he treats his friends, I don't want to know what he does to people he doesn't like."

Stirling laughs.

"Hold still," she says, picking off a blade of grass stuck to Joe's right cheek. "There's just a few more."

She manages to clean off his face and remove a small chunk of sod that has adhered to his neck.

"Thanks," says Joe, colouring slightly as he wipes at his face again, this time with the inside of his once white undershirt. As he lifts the hem, Stirling gets a prime view of his well-muscled stomach and chest, complete with a fuzzy treasure trail down the mid-line of his torso.

She quickly turns away, blushing.

"Is that any better?" Joe asks.

She turns back and gives him a quick glance.

"Much better," she says.

With a cluck to Bucephalus, Stirling turns and begins walking up the trail. Joe falls in step beside her.

"What did you say his name is?"

"Bucephalus," she says, petting the huge dog's head.

Joe's quiet for a few seconds.

"I have to be honest - that's a weird name."

Stirling smiles.

"It's the name of Alexander the Great's horse," she explains. "According to the Greek historian Plutarch, 13-year-old Alexander was able to tame the big black horse when all others, including his own father, fail. He does so through gentle words and by removing his cloak, which is fluttering in the wind. He turns the horse so he faces the sun, making him unable to see his own shadow, which the animal is afraid of. According to Plutarch, Alexander's father - King Philip II - is so impressed, he tells the boy: 'O my son, look thee out a kingdom equal to and worthy of thyself, for Macedonia is too little for thee.'"

Joe looks at Stirling. He has absolutely no idea what she is talking about or what to say. He's never met anyone who can quote Plutarch - whoever that is. At least he doesn't think he has. It's never really come up in a conversation before or even during a pub quiz.

"There's all kinds of legends and myths about Alexander and Bucephalus - they were born on the same day, they died on the same day, that the Oracle of Delphi foretold that the king of the world would be the man who rides the big, black horse," adds Stirling. "All that's really known for sure is Bucephalus is buried somewhere in Pakistan."

Joe nods his head.

"I knew that dog was really a horse."

Stirling laughs.

"I believe you thought he was a pony," she corrects.

They walk together in silence along the path until they reach a picturesque lookout point and a wooden bench. Stirling decides it's safe to let Bucephalus off his leash again and watches as he gallops through the long grass.

"I'm sorry we interrupted your jog," she says, turning to Joe, who is looking out at the sea. Most of the boats have left the Portwenn harbour and are en route to their predetermined prime fishing spots.

"It's okay," he says. "I was almost done."

"How far do you go?"

"A few miles," Joe says, sitting down on the bench, stretching his legs out in front of him. "I jog about a mile out along the trail and then back again to the station."

Stirling sits sideways at the other end of the bench so she can keep an eye on Bucephalus, who appears to be digging at a rabbit hole.

"HobNob?" she asks, holding out the half empty package.

Joe looks surprised.

"Don't mind if I do," he says, grabbing a few.

"It would appear that since you're still in town, your second chance went well," Joe says as he bites into a biscuit.

"It did. Meet the new part-time GP of Portwenn," she says, extending her hand.

"Congratulations, Doc," says Joe, shaking her hand. "When do you start?"

"In a week," she says. "I have to arrange to have my things shipped here from London and settle into the living quarters at the surgery. Do you know where I can find a bed?"

"To sleep in?"

"Yes!" says Stirling, looking a little offended. "I need a new bed; the bigger the better."

Joe gives her a strange look and chews on his HobNob, considering her question.

"I think there's a furniture store in Wadebridge," he says. "That's about 20 minutes out of town. For sure there would be one in Bodmin. That's about 30 minutes out. Or you could check the print ads pinned up in the grocery store."

"No, I want a new bed," says Stirling. "I'm tired of second hand, lumpy mattresses, roll-away beds and cots. I've slept in enough of those to last me a lifetime. I want a bed no one else has slept in."

She takes a bite of her HobNob, thinking as she chews.

"Do you think those stores would deliver?"

"Probably," says Joe. "If not, you might be able to hire Bert Large to bring it home for you. He has a delivery van he uses for his restaurant."

"I'll have to introduce myself to him," says Stirling. "Louisa gave me a long list of people I have to meet. She's going to try to show me around the village sometime today."

Joe's quiet for a moment, swallowing the last of his biscuit.

"If she doesn't have time, I can show you around," he says shyly.

Stirling smiles.

"I'll keep that in mind," she says, standing up. She glances at her watch - almost 8 a.m. "I have to get going; lots to do."

Joe looks down at his own watch and says a quiet oath.

"Time flies," he says, standing up and beginning to jog on the spot.

"I'm really sorry about your jacket and shirt," says Stirling, walking backward toward the surgery. "I can get them cleaned if you like."

"It's okay," says Joe, beginning to jog down the trail heading back toward the village and the police station. "I'll see you around."

Stirling turns and whistles for Bucephalus, who comes bounding from the long grass where he's been rolling. He's a grass-stained, muddy mess.

"Great," she says, examining him. "Now I'll have to find a hose and soap. Like I don't have enough to do already."

As the mismatched pair walks toward the surgery, Joe looks over his shoulder, willing Stirling to look his way. Nothing. Just after he turns back to continue his jog, Stirling looks over her shoulder, watching him sprint up a small hill and disappear down the other side.


	7. Chapter 6

When she and Bucephalus return to the surgery, Stirling gets straight to work. Digging in the back garden shed, she finds a hosepipe. For soap, she uses her own shampoo from the upstairs loo. She sets up in the side parking area, screwing the hosepipe to an outside spigot.

With the leash on and Bucephalus in a stand-stay, Stirling wets him down and pours on the shampoo, lathering him up until he's completely white. It's a difficult task, considering his filthy state and the size of him.

She's half way through the job when she hears footsteps coming quickly up the hill. She turns, discovering Dr. Ellingham marching toward the surgery from next door.

"Good morning, Chief," Stirling calls, startling him from his single-minded march.

He stops and stares.

"What on Earth is that?" he asks, pointing at a suds covered Bucephalus.

"A dog," she says, rinsing the soap from his fur.

"I can see it's a dog," he says, exasperated. "Why are you bathing it?"

Stirling looks up and smiles.

"He managed to get himself really dirty during his morning romp. And then he covered PC Penhale in mud. He's had a busy morning."

The Doc continues to stare at her.

"That's all very interesting but WHY are YOU bathing the dog?"

She looks up from her rinsing.

"Because he's my dog."

Dr. Ellingham looks horrified.

"You never mentioned you owned a dog," he says, flustered.

Stirling shrugs, rinsing off Bucephalus' other side.

"I didn't think it was important. And I don't think the subject ever came up."

"This won't do," the Doc says sharply, shaking his head. "You can't have a dog in the surgery.

Stirling looks up in surprise.

"Why not?"

"Dogs are dirty, they're full of disease, and they smell. Not to mention they bite."

"Not this dog," she says, re-rinsing Bucephalus.

"No, this dog is just the size of a small European country," says Dr. Ellingham sarcastically.

Stirling realizes he won't be convinced easily. She doesn't want the issue to become a deal breaker.

"Stay," she says, shutting of the hosepipe. She walks over to the Doc, leaving Bucephalus unattended.

"I've had this dog for the past five years, ever since he was a little puppy" she explains. "And, yes, Bucephalus was once small. He has been through several highly intensive obedience programs, is incredibly well trained and behaved - although unfortunately not around PC Penhale, it seems. I keep him well groomed, his shots are up-to-date and he's on a regular worming program. He listens to every word I say and responds immediately."

"Look at him," she says, gesturing with her thumb over her shoulder. "I left him in a stand-stay and he hasn't moved a muscle, not even to shake the water off. He won't move until I tell him to."

Dr. Ellingham looks over at the dog, watching him. He looks back at Stirling.

"What's the command to get him to move?"

"There are several," she says, brushing a dusting of mud from her pants.

"Shake."

With a sigh of relief, Bucephalus lowers his head and vibrates his whole body, water droplets flying everywhere.

"Stop."

He freezes immediately.

"Come," orders Stirling, her back still to the dog.

Bucephalus walks calmly up to her, standing by her left side.

"Sit."

His bum hits the ground with a thump. He looks up at Dr. Ellingham with a doggy grin.

The Doc grimaces back and grunts.

"You can pet him if you like. He won't bite."

Dr. Ellingham looks like he would rather gargle with battery acid.

He silently appraises the pair. The seconds tick by.

"I can guarantee you there will not be a problem with this dog," says Stirling. "If there is, if you can find a legitimate issue with Bucephalus living on my side of the surgery, I'll get rid of him."

Dr. Ellingham looks from Stirling to the dog and back again.

"Bucephalus?"

She nods.

"Interesting name - Alexander the Great's horse."

Finally, he grunts.

"It's only allowed on your side of the surgery and never in the waiting room. And it's never, ever, ever allowed in the consulting room - EVER! It's against the law, particularly the law of Dr. Ellingham."

Stirling smiles and holds out her hand. The Doc gives her a firm handshake.

"Deal!"

"And I don't want it in the kitchen when I'm there."

"Don't worry," says Stirling. "I'm pretty sure he's going to avoid you like the vet."

The Doc gives her an unreadable look and then continues toward the surgery.

"Good boy," Stirling whispers, fussing with Bucephalus' head and ears. "Let's get this bath over with."

She finishes rinsing off the soap and then allows the dog several vigorous shakes. She finishes him off with a brisk wipe down.

When she's done, she gathers and puts away the hosepipe before leading Bucephalus through the back door, first checking to see if the Doc is there.

"Coast is clear," she whispers.

She takes Bucephalus through the kitchen, the living room and the front vestibule before sending him up the stairs.

"Bed," she whispers.

About five people sit around the waiting room. Every pair of eyes is on her.

"Good morning," she says with a smile and a small wave.

"Doc Stirling!" Morwenna cries enthusiastically, jumping up from her desk. Stirling is somewhat shocked when the young girl gives her a big hug.

"I was hoping it would be you," she says with a big smile. "He told me this morning he'd made a decision on the new part-time GP. When do you start?"

"Next week. I need to settle into the surgery first, bring my things down from London, buy some furniture."

"Does he know about the D-O-G?" Morwenna whispers, her face filled with concern.

"Yes," says Stirling, trying hard not to laugh.

_Does she think the patients don't know how to spell dog?_ she wonders.

"He hates them with a passion."

"So I've discovered. It's all been sorted out," she assures Morwenna.

"I'm just so excited!" the young girl says, jumping up and down lightly in place.

"Everyone, this is Dr. Stirling Aylesworth," she says, turning to the people seated about the waiting room. "Starting next week, she's going to be seeing patients when Doc Martin is in Truro. Doc Stirling, this is Chippy Miller, Mike Chubb, Caroline Bosman, Pippa Woodley and Mr. Moysey."

She shakes hands all around, memorizing faces and names.

"Nice to meet you all," Stirling says, inching toward the stairs. "I have to get back to making my arrangements. I'll see you later, Morwenna."

She escapes up the stairs, taking two at a time. She looks forward to meeting the residents of the village and getting immersed in her new job but there is so much to do, she feels like she's already falling behind.

After settling on the mattress in the master bedroom, Stirling makes the first call of the day on her mobile - Christopher. After two rings, the call connects.

"Moneypenny!" a male voice booms. "Where are you dearest? I've been waiting with bated breath. How did the interview go?"

"Are you juggling babes right now or do you have time?" she asks.

"I've always got time for you, gorgeous."

"I got the position," she says, remembering to immediately pull the mobile away from her head. A strident shriek of joy emanates from the small device. Once the noise on the other end quiets, she puts the phone back up to her ear.

"That's wonderful!" Christopher yells. "Thank god that dry spell is over with!"

"Dry spell? It was more like a full-blown drought!"

"Well, it's behind you now Ling-Ling. Move forward."

"That's why I'm calling. I need your help."

"I got you the damn interview, now you want more!" he says in mock outrage.

"I need my possessions boxed up and shipped down from London," Stirling says. "There's not much, just what's in the closet and the drawers and lying around your guest bedroom."

"No problem, sweetheart. What about the boxes in our storage spot?"

"Send it all. I need to get my crap out of your lives. I've sponged off you long enough."

"That's enough of that! You're our best friend in the whole world. Michael is going to be devastated when he hears you'll be working in the wilds of the southwest. He can't even find Cornwall on a map."

"That's not too shocking, Christopher," Stirling says with a laugh.

"So where am I shipping your belongings?"

She gives him the address and spends the next five minutes arguing over who will pay the charges.

"You need your money to outfit the new abode," says Christopher. "It probably needs all the help it can get."

"Don't be mean," she warns. "It's a beautiful village. You'll have to come visit, although you might need to sedate Michael if you want him to survive the trip."

"He's expendable."

"How's Leyland?"

"Not expendable. He is his usual wonderful, patient self. We miss you, Ling-Ling. I'll get to work on boxing up your belongings and bring the other items up from storage. When it's all ready, I'll phone you with the delivery information, okay?"

"Thank you, Christopher," says Stirling. "I miss all of you. Tell them I say hi!"

"Kisses darling. Chow."

After the call is finished, she sits for a moment, missing her kooky and bizarre friends. She sighs and jumps up from the mattress. It's time to make a list.

Leaving Bucephalus snoozing on the mat upstairs, Stirling goes down to the kitchen, snagging a pad of paper and a pen from Morwenna on the way by. Sitting on a rickety chair, she examines what she has to work with and what she needs.

Her resources are limited. The kitchen has a cooker and an undercounter fridge but the cupboards are bare - no dishes, no cups, no cutlery, no food (except that half-eaten box of crackers - she finished the HobNobs). The pantry is also bare, although there is an old washer and dryer located there.

_I can do laundry_, thinks Stirling, remembering the bag of dirty clothes stuffed in one of the Triumph's saddlebags.

No towels, no cleaning supplies, no kitchen table, no small appliances (except an espresso maker - obviously the Chief's), no chairs, no pots, no pans, no dresser, no bed, no pillows, no bedding, no furniture of any kind.

_Road trip_, she thinks. _And hope for free delivery_.

* * *

It takes her three days of hard work but Stirling manages to make the surgery look and feel like a home.

The first purchase is the bed, a super-king sleigh bed she falls in love with at a furniture store in Wadebridge. Not only do they deliver but they also wrestle it up the tight stairs and set it up in the master bedroom along with the chest of drawers, bedside table and comfy reading chair she purchases. It all just fits.

The kitchen table and chairs she finds in one of the print adverts at the grocery store. The set comes with a buffet that fits along the wall of the kitchen near the pantry. She pays the seller an extra fiver to deliver it for her and together they move everything in.

She spends an afternoon haunting second hand stores in Bodmin and Wadebridge, buying mismatched dish sets, glasses, cups, eclectic artwork, brightly coloured floor mats and rugs, a patchwork quilt and funky lamps. She also finds an old violin she claims as her own.

She stocks the cupboards and pantry with cleaning supplies and food. Most of it is simple fare as Stirling isn't much of a cook; actually, she can't cook at all.

She is forced to buy quite a few new items, including bedding and pillows, linens for the kitchen, towels for the bathroom, cutlery and cooking utensils, pots and pans, and some small appliances, including a kettle, toaster and electric can opener.

At 9 a.m. sharp on Thursday morning, just as Christopher tells her it will, the delivery van arrives from London. It takes the pair less than an hour to move her small collection of boxes into the living room. Stirling stares somewhat forlornly at her small pyramid of worldly possession and sighs. She's pleased to see her acoustic guitar has survived the trip as has her box of music supplies. All the boxes containing books or paper, she leaves in place. Clothing, shoes and toiletries she carries upstairs and begins organizing in her bedroom and bathroom. Soon, only around eight boxes are left.

Stirling looks around the small house and decides she's pretty much settled in. Not bad for three days work.

That night, she sits at her kitchen table and restrings the violin using supplies from one of her newly arrived boxes. The bow will also need new horse hair but it works for now. When she's finished her repairs, she tunes the instrument and begins to play. She closes her eyes and the notes tumble from her fingers - Paganini, Bartok, Bach, and Hartmann. She plays until her fingers are numb and her mind is empty of fear.

* * *

Dr. Ellingham sits in a wooden lawn chair in his back garden, listening to the insects chirp. It is a beautiful late summer evening.

_Not many of these left in the season_, he thinks.

Louisa joins him a few minutes later after reading James two bedtime stories. They sit side by side and listen to the night.

The sound of a violin comes from somewhere nearby, echoing off the hills and the harbour walls, making it impossible to trace.

"Can you hear that?" asks the Doc.

"Yes, it's beautiful," says Louisa.

"Someone has finally developed some musical taste in this village," he says, leaning back in his chair. "I wonder if that's Classic FM or BBC Radio 3? Or it could be a recording."

"You know, it might just be someone in the village playing a violin," says Louisa.

The Doc looks over at her, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Don't be ridiculous. You know there's no one around here with the talent to play like that. That's a professional, not some kid sawing at the strings making cat squalling noises. No, that's Classic FM or BBC Radio 3; I know it."


	8. Chapter 7

The minute the Doc closes the surgery door behind the first patient of the morning, Morwenna bolts for the kitchen. A portable radio sits on the windowsill, forgotten when the Ellingham's moved their belongings to the new house. And she needs it. In mere seconds, she's back at her desk, plugging it in and clearing a corner for it to sit.

"Are we going to listen to music?" asks a wrinkled old woman waiting for her appointment. "I love that young man from America, California I think. Oh, what's his name again? - Snoopy the Dog."

Morwenna looks up from the radio in surprise.

"You mean Snoop Dogg?"

"That's the man. He can rhyme words so quickly. And creatively too."

Morwenna smiles and shakes her head, adjusting one of the radio knobs back and forth. Suddenly, the sound of Latin music fills the waiting room. She quickly turns down the volume, glancing at the closed surgery door. It remains closed.

"I don't think Radio Portwenn plays much Snoop Dogg, Mrs. Chadwick," says Morwenna. "Caroline is interviewing Doc Stirling on the radio this morning and I want to hear it."

"Wasn't Doc Martin just on Caroline's show yesterday?" the old lady asks.

"Yeah, he was explaining the changes at the surgery, how Doc Stirling will be working part time, plus doing home visits and emergency calls. I've had lots of people calling in for appointments with her, mostly the women."

The surgery door opens and an older man exits, bent over coughing.

"Cover your mouth," shouts the doc as he strides out after him. He's handing Morwenna a file when he notices the radio.

"Remove that radio from the waiting room," he says quietly. "This is a doctor's surgery, not a dance club."

"Please Doc," begs Morwenna. "Doc Stirling's on this morning and I really want to hear her."

He looks down at the receptionist for a moment, then grunts.

"Next patient please."

Morwenna tries hard not to do a fist pump in the air as she calls Mrs. Chadwick over and hands the old woman her file.

"I would have really liked to hear some Snoopy the Dog," the old woman laments, entering the consulting room.

* * *

"Could I please have a glass of ice water?" Stirling asks a harried-looking young waitress trotting by.

It's the third time she's made the request and she hasn't even managed to get a thimbleful of liquid from any of the wait staff that periodically race by. And her throat is beginning to burn like a beach on a hot day.

She knows it's just nerves but she really needs that glass of water. She'd settle for a slurp from the faucet in the loo at this point.

She's considering searching for the facilities when the door beside her pops open and a head peeks around the jam.

"We're ready for you, doctor," says a brassy blonde with a loud, powerful voice.

Stirling recognizes her instantly - Caroline Bosman.

_She was in the surgery waiting room last week_, thinks Stirling, rising from the plush loveseat she's been warming for the past 15 minutes.

As she enters the radio station sound booth, which is actually located within a posh hotel on the hilltop above Portwenn, Stirling tries one more time.

"Please, I really need a glass of ice water," she begs Caroline, who grabs the arm of a passing waiter.

"Ice water. Now," she barks and the man is off and running.

Caroline settles Stirling into a cushy chair situated at what appears to be a boardroom table. She points to a large microphone clipped into a stand sitting on the tabletop.

"When the show starts, you need to speak into this microphone," Caroline explains. "Speak in a normal tone of voice; slowly and clearly."

Stirling nods. She's dealt with microphones before.

Caroline settles herself into the host's chair located directly across from Stirling. She has her own microphone plus headphones and a control panel.

There's a soft knock on the door and the waiter enters, carrying a tray with some glasses and a pitcher of ice water.

Caroline is obviously a miracle worker.

"Thank you," Stirling says with a sigh of relief, quickly pouring herself a glass and gulping it down.

"Whoa, not too much," warns Caroline with a laugh. "Or you'll have to pee half way through the show. This is live you know."

* * *

Joe parks in one of his favourite spots for catching speeders and reclines his seat slightly. The rumour around town is the new doc will be appearing as a guest on Caroline's radio show this morning. And he's looking forward to hearing her.

Stirling's been on Joe's mind a lot lately. He sees a woman with plaited hair and he thinks of her. A motorcycle roars through town and he thinks it's her - and sometimes it is. He's even started dreaming up different scenarios so he can bump into her around the village, by accident of course. He's also changed his jogging route permanently so he always runs along the cliff top trail, where she and her pony-sized dog can usually be found early in the morning.

Joe clicks off both his hand held and vehicle TETRA radios and puts his cell phone on vibrate. He wants to be able to listen without being disturbed. He turns on the Land Rover's radio, already tuned to Radio Portwenn, and leans back to wait. The vehicle echoes with the sound of Latin music.

* * *

Stirling notices a flurry of activity on the opposite side of the glass wall behind Caroline. A man knocks on the glass and waves three fingers.

"Okay, 30 seconds before we go live," says Caroline, relaxing into her chair. "Just remember - talk into the microphone, slowly, clearly, no foul language and just be yourself. You'll be great."

The brassy blonde pops on her headphones and is soon introducing her show.

"Yesterday, we had Doc Martin stop by to explain the changes currently underway at Portwenn's surgery and today we are lucky enough to have the village's newest GP, Dr. Stirling Aylesworth, as our guest."

"Welcome to Portwenn and welcome to the show, Doc Stirling," says Caroline in a perky voice.

"It's my pleasure," Stirling answers, leaning forward to speak directly into the microphone.

Caroline gives her two big thumbs up.

"So what do you think of our little village so far?"

"It's been interesting and the people have been very friendly and welcoming. Actually, when I first came to Portwenn, I had to pull my bike over at the top of the hill - the hill coming into town - because the view was so spectacular."

Stirling is warming up to this radio interview gig.

Caroline gives her a puzzled look.

"You travelled to Portwenn on a bicycle?" she asks.

Stirling chokes back a laugh.

_Why does everyone here immediately think of bicycles?_

"No, a motorcycle. A 1956 Triumph Tiger 110."

"You ride a motorcycle?" asks Caroline, incredulously.

"Yes," answers Stirling, feeling her feminist hackles begin to rise.

_Why are people - including other women - so amazed that she owns and drives a motorcycle?_

"You don't typical think of a doctor riding a motorcycle. So how did that come about?" asks Caroline.

"My father had the Triumph when he first started out as a veterinarian," Stirling explains. "It was useful when he had to travel to more isolated farms."

"So your father was a veterinarian."

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Outside Helmsley in Yorkshire, near the North York Moors. Anyway, my father bought a Land Rover and decided to store the motorcycle in a shed on our farm. We forgot all about it. Then, years later, I was exploring and rediscovered it. My brother-in-law, Robert, said he would help me restore it. It took us a whole winter but we did it. Rob and my sister, Emily, gifted it to me when I went away to university."

"How old were you when you rebuilt the motorcycle?" Caroline asks with a furrowed brow.

Stirling thinks for a moment.

"Eleven."

"You restored a motorcycle when you were 11?!"

"I was going through a DIY/spanner stage. I rebuilt our tractor's diesel engine the next summer. And then I moved on to my medical stage."

"Your medical stage?"

"I've actually never really outgrown it," Stirling laughs into the microphone, really beginning to relax. "Em always said I would end up being a doctor. For about an entire school year, when I was 12, I stayed in town after classes to hang out at the local surgery. Our doc was old Dr. Farnon, a great man who listened to me prattle on for hours. He would answer all of my inane questions, like when was the first blood transfusion ever performed. I mean, everyone knows it was in 1667. After a while, he let me help out with some of the procedures, like suturing wounds, setting broken bones, taking blood. I helped deliver 10 babies, including one set of twins, that year. Dr. Farnon was an amazing man. He lived long enough to see me graduate from medical school."

"You helped deliver babies when you were 12?"

"I was mature for my age," assures Stirling.

Caroline stares at her with a combined look of horror and disbelief. She manages to continue on.

"So you knew what you wanted to be from a young age," Caroline says with a nervous laugh.

"You could say that. It was a toss up between medicine and music."

"Music? You're musical? Do you play an instrument?"

"I play the violin, cello, alto and tenor saxophone, the acoustic guitar and the piano, of course not all at the same time. I also sing."

Caroline stares at her open-mouthed.

"That's impressive. Is there one instrument you're particularly talented at playing?"

"That would have to be the piano. I've been playing since I was three. Actually, when I was coming into the studio, I noticed there is a beautiful Chappell grand near the hotel restaurant. I wondered if anyone played it?"

Caroline smirks. She has a great idea.

"Would you like to?"

Stirling looks up at the radio host and smiles.

"I certainly would."

Within minutes, the radio station crew is setting up a remote microphone by the piano and wiring Stirling so she can hear and talk to Caroline. Meanwhile, Portwenn's radio listeners are being treated to even more Latin tunes.

Stirling runs her fingers over the piano keys in a series of scales. It's been a few weeks since she last played and she feels stiff and rusty. A small group of onlookers is starting to gather in the area.

_Maybe this wasn't such a great idea_, she thinks.

With a crackle, Caroline's voice comes through the headphones.

"Okay, so we're coming back live in about 30 seconds. Don't play anything too long, three to four minutes tops."

_Mozart_, thinks Stirling.

Seconds later, she hears Caroline welcome the audience back, reintroduce Stirling and explain what is happening next.

"Are you ready, Doc Stirling?" Caroline asks.

"Yes I am," she answers, speaking into the remote microphone. "I'm going to play a selection by Mozart from Piano Sonata No. 11 in A Major."

Stirling sets her fingers over the keys and closes her eyes.

* * *

No one in the waiting room dares to move as the music fills the room. They are enchanted. For Morwenna, it's like listening to a musical interpretation of hummingbirds flying from flower to flower in her back garden. For Chippy Miller, the music reminds him of white-capped waves striking the side of his boat on a rough dark sea. And Serena Borthwick is amazed how the beat of the music is similar to the tempo of her unborn baby's kicks.

In the middle of this musical interlude, the consultant room door opens and Mrs. Chadwick exits, giving Morwenna a friendly wave on the way by.

"That certainly doesn't sound like Snoopy the Dog," she mutters as she walks out the surgery's front door.

The Doc leaves his office closely after her, handing Morwenna Mrs. Chadwick's folder for filing.

"It sounds like Radio Portwenn has finally heeded my advice and started playing some quality music," he says, pausing to listen. "Very nice."

"That's Doc Stirling," whispers Morwenna. "She's playing the piano that sits by the restaurant in the Portwenn Hotel."

"What!"

A chorus of shushes come from throughout the waiting room.

"You're joking!"

Morwenna looks up at the Doc's surprised face and realizes this is the most emotion she has ever seen him display.

* * *

As the musical notes begin to echo in Joe's Land Rover, the hairs on his arms stand on end and a weird feeling settles in his stomach.

"It's beautiful," he thinks, "so beautiful."

Joe would be the first to admit he isn't a big music fan. He couldn't tell the difference between Beethoven and Brahms and only vaguely remembers the popular music of his youth. But listening to Stirling play that piano stirs something inside him. The sting of emotion builds behind his eyes and he is horrified by the thought he might begin to cry. He reaches to turn off the radio but stops himself.

"She's amazing," he thinks. "I can't turn that off."

He wants to know her better. He wants to spend time with her.

* * *

Stirling doesn't open her eyes again until the final note vibrates to silence two minutes and 58 seconds later. She is startled by the applause and whistling. The area is filled with people.

"That was fantastic, Doc Stirling," Caroline shouts through the headphones. "Listeners, please bear with us while the doctor travels back to the studio."

An intern swiftly unwires Stirling, who walks quickly down the hall to the radio booth. In less than a minute she's back sitting across from a visibly excited Caroline.

"That was beautiful," she says, her eyes shining.

"Thank you. I haven't had many opportunities to play in the past year or so. It felt good to have my fingers on piano keys again."

"Being a doctor must keep you very busy."

"It can."

"Not much time for a social life then?"

"Not really."

"Are you married?"

Stirling doesn't like where this is going.

"No," she says.

"Divorced?"

"No."

"Engaged?"

Stirling flinches.

"No."

"I saw that," says Caroline, wagging her finger at Stirling. "I bet you've been close."

"Well, in the immortal words of Johnny Carson, close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades," quips Stirling.

Caroline gives her a puzzled look.

"Well, I'd like to thank Doc Stirling for coming in and talking to me today and also for providing such beautiful entertainment. And for all you bachelors out there, it would appear Portwenn has a new lady for you to check out."

It's now Stirling's turn to be shocked speechless.


	9. Chapter 8

This announcement launches a period of time Stirling refers to as the Parade of Prats.

It takes very little time for her to establish a pattern and flow to her work week. Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays she spends seeing patients in the surgery. These are the days Dr. Ellingham performs surgeries at the hospital in Truro. Thursday and Friday Stirling spends on the road making house calls to patients too sick, frail or remote to travel into Portwenn. And while she is out of the surgery, Dr. Ellingham sees patients.

It's a good system and Stirling finds herself enjoying the work and the people. It's a bit awkward at first with the men of the village, who are hesitant to see her about "personal matters." Many wait for the Doc to return to town before seeking medical treatment, which they receive along with a lecture about their stupidity and medical professionalism.

"You should have had this looked at days ago," he rants, loud enough for everyone in the waiting room to hear. "Do you think she's never seen a penis before? Or testicles? Or a bum? Do you think your equipment is different than any other man's? She's a medical professional, you idiot. She knows more about your penis than you probably do!"

It takes time but the men eventually come around, many dragged in red faced by their wives and girlfriends, who welcome Stirling to the village like a sister. They finally have someone who might understand and empathize with them about their female medical issues without lecturing, or bullying or leaving them in tears. Osteoporosis, premenstrual syndrome, endometriosis, ovarian cysts, postpartum depression, menorrhagia, infertility issues, dysmenorrhea, menopause, pregnancy - Stirling listens, advises and treats it all. The women marvel that she does so without raising her voice, calling anyone an idiot or moron, or sparking an emotional breakdown.

But for Stirling, it becomes all so overwhelmingly female from time to time that she longs for an erectile dysfunction case, an infected foreskin or anything involving testosterone.

When she isn't in the surgery, Stirling is on the road, riding the Triumph to scattered farms and houses located in the moors or along the verdant cliffs. Bucephalus usually rides with her in the sidecar, goggles on and tongue out. During her home visits, he sleeps in the sidecar or sniffs around the farmyards, always on his best behaviour.

Her first few days on the road are eye opening. Most of the home visits are to elderly patients bed ridden and being cared for at home by a spouse or grown child. In most cases she is there to deliver prescription refills and monitor treatment programs. The majority of them enjoy the visit and try to feed her tea and cakes. Stirling realizes she might have to take up some form of exercise.

On Friday afternoon, she visits the Buchwalds at Stone Manor Farm, an isolated sheep farm far onto Bodmin Moor. The trip out is about an hour and Stirling enjoys the barren scenery.

According to the patient file, Alice and Frank Buchwald are around Stirling's age - in their early 30s - and have been married almost two years. Just after the couple's first wedding anniversary, Alice was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumour. She has refused treatment and wishes to die at home.

Stirling is there to deliver pain medication and monitor Alice's health.

As she pulls into the farmyard, Stirling's greeted by a pair of sheep dogs, barking loudly. They take one look at Bucephalus and quickly trot back to the sheep shed. She gathers her doctor's bag and walks to the front door. Before she can knock, it is flung open by a thin, dark-haired man. His face is extremely pale and dark circles stand out under his eyes. He looks like he hasn't had a good night's sleep in weeks.

"Hiya," says Stirling, offering her hand. "I'm Dr. Stirling Aylesworth, the new GP at the Portwenn surgery. I'm here to visit Alice and deliver your medical supplies. You must be Frank."

The man stands motionless for a long moment, as if waiting for his brain to process what Stirling has said. Then he quickly shakes her hand and opens the door wider.

"Come in, come in," he says wearily. "You'll have to excuse me. We had a rough night last night."

"I'm sorry to hear that," says Stirling, entering the old farmhouse. She shrugs off her leather jacket and folds it over the back of a chair in the front hall. "What's the problem?"

"The headaches are getting worse," he explains, leading Stirling down a hall to the back of the house. There, in what was once a living room, a hospital bed has been set facing a large window. The view of the moor is stunning and light streams through the glass, illuminating the room with a warm light. Most of the furniture has been removed from the room except a few chairs and a twin bed pushed up against the far wall.

_This is obviously where Frank sleeps_, thinks Stirling.

Lying in the hospital bed on a nest of brightly coloured pillows is a petite red headed woman, covered in an equally bright crazy quilt. Her hair is tied back in a loose ponytail and her eyes are closed as if she is asleep.

"The doctor's here, Al," says Frank, settling into a chair beside the bed and gathering up one of the woman's bony hands.

"Hi Alice. I'm Dr. Stirling Aylesworth from the Portwenn surgery. I've come by to deliver some things and see how you're getting on."

"You can tell that grumpy bugger of a doctor that I'm still alive," a sweet, singsong voice says. "Visits from him were as much fun as being beaten with a bag of hammers. You sound a little friendlier; possibly human."

"Please excuse Al," says Frank. "She's a little off about doctors."

"You don't have to apologize for me," Alice says with indignation.

"No apologies are needed," says Stirling, sitting on a chair near the bed. "Tell me how you're feeling."

"The headaches are getting worse," the young woman explains, never opening her eyes. "They last for hours and nothing touches them except for the morphine injections. And they wear off so quickly."

She pauses for a moment.

"I completely lost my vision on Tuesday. I used to be able to see light and dark and shapes. But now it's completely dark. I've always been a bit afraid of the dark," she says with a slight tremor in her voice.

Frank sits beside her and strokes her hand, his eyes on the floor.

"It sounds like it might be time to set up a morphine line," says Stirling. "It will have a pump so you can control how much of the drug you receive - more when the pain is bad and less when it's more tolerable."

Frank looks up at Stirling with sad eyes.

"We knew it was just a matter of time before we had to shift to that kind of pain management. We just held out as long as we could."

"I don't like the idea of being hooked to a machine," says Alice.

"The machine will help you control the pain in a steadier, more consistent way," explains Stirling. "And you will have control. You control the machine; it won't control you."

Alice nods her head slightly.

"I'll contact home nursing care and have them pay you a visit," says Stirling. "They can set the system up and I'll continue to bring you out morphine supplies. It will be in transfusion bags that are easy to load into the machine."

The couple is silent as they wrestle with the idea of change.

"Now Alice, how about I check your vitals," says Stirling, standing up and reaching for her doctor's bag.

About 30 minutes later, her visit is complete.

"I'll arrange things with home care and see you next Friday," Stirling says to Alice. "Bye-bye."

Alice waves weakly from the bed as Stirling leaves the room, heading back to the front door. Frank follows.

"I have a box of supplies for you out in the sidecar," says Stirling, slipping into her jacket.

Frank follows her outside to the motorcycle and takes the offered box.

"Nice bike," he says, admiring the Triumph. "A lovely antique. Alice loves motorcycles. She always wanted one. But we decided to wait."

He's silent for a moment, wrestling with his emotions.

"When we first married, she wanted to try for a baby but I convinced her to wait. She wanted a honeymoon in Paris but I told her we could do that later, when we had more money. Now look at us."

Stirling stands quietly, letting him talk.

"The docs told us she only had about three months to live. She just passed the six-month mark. I'm hoping and praying she makes it to our second anniversary. And our third. And our fourth. I'll take any time I can get. But the farm is falling to shambles and the brass ran out long ago."

Tears openly streak his face as he turns to Stirling.

"You seem like a right nice doc," he says. "Take my advice. Don't wait. Don't think. Just go for it."

Stirling gives him an awkward hug, considering he's holding a largish box of medical supplies.

"Take care, Frank," she says. "If you need anything, just call. I'll see you next Friday."

She makes it halfway back to Portwenn before she's forced to pull over, unable to see due to the tears clouding her goggles. She sits on the roadside in the middle of nowhere and cries quietly, her arms wrapped around her own body.

_This is ridiculous_, she thinks, wiping at the tears. _How many people have you seen dying? Or dead for that matter? Dozens and dozens! Get a grip on yourself!_

But she can't stop. She thinks of Alice and Frank, the isolated farm house on the moor, the mountain of regrets. The tears keep coming.

She's still crying when a vehicle travels up from behind and stops beside her.

"I say, are you okay?" says a male voice. "Have you had a break down?"

_Yeah, an emotional one!_ Stirling thinks dryly.

She turns her tear stained face toward the vehicle. A pleasant faced blonde haired man sits behind the wheel of a compact car, leaning over to talk out the passenger side window. When he sees her face, he looks concerned.

"Are you hurt?"

Stirling shakes her head, the lump in her throat making it impossible for her to speak.

"Do you want me to call an ambulance, a doctor?"

"I am a doctor," she manages to croak out. "One who you've managed to catch being an overly emotional git. Please excuse me, I'm having a weak moment."

"Quite alright," he says. "Are you sure you're okay? I'm just on my way home to Portwenn. Did you want me to contact someone to come get you?"

"No, I'll be better in a moment," Stirling says. "I'm heading to Portwenn as well."

"Really? Do you have family there?"

"No, I live there."

"I don't think I've ever met you. I'm Peter Simmons, one of the teachers at the Portwenn primary school."

"Nice to meet you, Peter. I'm Dr. Stirling Aylesworth."

"Ah, so you're the new doctor working with Louisa's husband," he says, nodding his head. "Now there's a man who can make the strongest among us cry."

Stirling smiles, wiping at the tears with her leather gloves.

"That's better," says Peter. "I'd hate to leave a lovely lady crying on the side of the road. You know, you look like you could use a drink. Fancy joining me for a pint later tonight at The Crab and Lobster?"

Now, Stirling isn't one for accepting dates from strange men on the side of the road. But all she can think of is Alice lying in her hospital bed and Frank's words: don't wait; don't think; just go for it.

"Sure," she says. "How about we meet up at 7:30?"

"Perfect," he says, putting his car into gear. "You take care on the ride home, Stirling. And I'll see you later."

His little car is soon a dot in the distance.

The rest of Stirling's ride back to Portwenn is fairly uneventful, although Bucephalus does need to make a pit stop a mile or so before the village. She manages to make it back to the surgery just before 6 p.m.

Morwenna is busy straightening the waiting room, one of her last tasks before she leaves for the day.

"Thank goodness. I thought you might be lost on the moor," she says as Stirling and Bucephalus come through the door.

"No, just had to make a couple of pit stops on the way back."

Bucephalus quickly trots through the doorway into Stirling's side of the house. He's already learned the waiting room is off limits, especially when Dr. Ellingham is around.

"He's with his final patient," Morwenna says, referring to the closed consultant room door. "I'm going to skip off now. Dinner date with Al."

"Going somewhere special?"

"No, just The Crab and Lobster."

"Maybe I'll see you there later."

Morwenna looks up in surprise.

"I didn't think you drank?"

"I don't. But this man stopped to chat with me along the Portwenn Road and he asked me out. I thought why not; it's Friday night."

Morwenna smiles and her eyes sparkle.

"A man! What's his name?"

"Peter Simmons? Works with Louisa?"

"Blonde guy?" asks Morwenna, looking worried.

"Yeah, why?"

"Just a word of warning - I've heard he can be a bit grabby. I'd keep my eye on that one."

Stirling is suddenly apprehensive about her night out.

_Great_, she thinks, _I made a date with an octopus_.

"Got to run. Ta!" says Morwenna, scampering out the door.

Stirling settles herself at the receptionist's desk and, working from memory, begins to update the patient notes in the file folders of each of the people she visited that day.

Halfway through her task, the consulting room door opens and an elderly lady limps out followed by Dr. Ellingham.

"Rub the cream on your knee twice a day," he says, escorting her to the front door. "If it isn't better in a week's time, call the surgery and one of us will look at it again."

After the elderly lady has left, Dr. Ellingham locks the front door. He turns to Stirling.

"How did it go today?" he asks, checking the notes in one of the folders Stirling has finished.

"Fine, Chief," she says. "I'm going to call home nursing in for Alice Buchwald. She's progressed to the point she needs a morphine pump. Her vision is also gone now."

"Hmmm," he says, scanning another set of notes. "Mrs. Chattel is still not up out of bed?"

"I had her up for a short time to use the loo," says Stirling. "She's being stubborn. Said: 'I waited hand and foot on that no-good bum of a husband of mine for the past 30 years; it's about time he did a little bit of something in return.'"

Dr. Ellingham glances up from the folder.

"That sounds exactly like something she would say."

"That's because it's exactly what she did say," Stirling says with a smile.

He gives her a strange look and sets the patient folders back in their pile. He glances at his watch.

"I need to get home; I'm cooking dinner," he says, heading for the back kitchen. "Have a good evening."

"Goodnight, Chief."

Stirling spends the next half hour updating the remaining patient notes. She leaves the folders on Morwenna's desk to file along with a note asking her to contact home care about Alice Buchwald.

After quickly eating a sandwich while standing over the sink, she rushes upstairs to shower and dress for her evening out. She decides to go for business casual but with a pair of jeans, the only pair she owns. On top she wears a fitted red dress shirt and a burgundy tweed riding jacket that go well together. She wears her hair down but the sides pulled back in a thin braid. On her feet she wears black pull-on paddock boots.

Stirling surveys herself in the full mirror on the wardrobe door. Not bad, she thinks. She opens one more button on the red shirt and examines the effect. She re-buttons it and checks again. She unbuttons it.

She glances at her watch: 7:25 p.m.

Downstairs, she fills Bucephalus' food and water bowl and gives him a vigorous scratch.

"You be good," she says, giving him a kiss on the top of his head and goes out the back door.

It's a quick walk down the hill to The Crab and Lobster and Stirling's there in minutes. She's nervous as she prepares to enter the pub. She's not a drinker and she's only been there a few times, always during the day. And having a drink with a man; a man she doesn't really know?

_Don't be such a coward_, she thinks to herself and walks in.

It takes her a moment to adjust to the lighting and get her bearings. The bar is crowded with loud fishermen, all describing that week's catch. The small tables and booths scattered around the room are also full, including one containing Morwenna and Al, who give her a quick wave. She waves back and Morwenna points to a doorway on the far side of the bar. Of course, another dining room. Stirling gives her the thumbs up and walks toward the entrance way. On her way she is greeted by many of the people seated at the bar and tables.

"Hiya Doc," she hears in a steady chorus.

She smiles and nods and waves to the odd person, feeling like a git.

Through the doorway on the other side of the bar is a second, less crowded dining room. She knows several people seated in this quieter area as well, including Joe Penhale, Dr. Ruth Ellingham and, finally, Peter Simmons. As soon as he sees her, Peter is on his feet.

"Stirling," he waves.

She waves back and walks over, sitting down in the chair he pulls out for her. She shivers slightly when he puts his hand on her back as he pushes in the chair.

_Uh-oh_, Stirling groans mentally.

"You're looking lovely," he says, sitting down across from her. "I see you've recovered nicely from earlier."

"Yes, thank you."

"So, what had you all worked up out there?" he asks, leaning in. "I mean, I thought you're dog had died or something."

Stirling feels mildly annoyed. Her earlier emotional breakdown is certainly not one of her finest moments and she's hoping to move on and forget about it. It seems Peter is intent on making it the main topic of conversation.

"It involved a patient I was visiting," she says. "What subjects do you teach at the school?" she adds, hoping to change the direction of the conversation.

"A doctor that makes house calls," Peter says with a laugh. "Impressive. You can make a house call at my place anytime."

He reaches across the small table and picks up one of Stirling's hands, rubbing it with his own.

_Ugh_, she thinks, gently but firmly removing it from his grasp. He appears unfazed.

"So, whom were you visiting?" he asks.

"I'm afraid I'm not allowed to talk about individual patients," she explains politely. "It goes against doctor-patient confidentiality."

"You can tell me," Peter says with a smile.

"No, I can't."

He looks a bit uncertain with her direct answer, wondering whether she's joking or not. He decides not to push it.

"How about that drink?" he asks. "What do you feel like?"

"I'll have a glass of ice water."

"Ice water? You sure you don't want something stronger?"

"No, an ice water is fine."

"Are you positive?"

"Yes."

"You can't come to a pub and just have an ice water," he says in an exasperated tone.

"I'll have an ice water, please," Stirling says firmly.

Peter is obviously baffled but gives a shrug.

"Okay, one ice water coming up. Don't run away," he says, touching her shoulder on the way by.

Stirling grits her teeth. This touchy-feely thing is pissing her off.

_Why can't he just keep his hands off her?_ she wonders. _And they let this man teach children?_

She leans back in her chair with a sigh of frustration and looks around the room. Most of the people have finished their meals and left. Joe, who is out of uniform she realizes, is also done eating but is nursing a beer as he leafs through a newspaper.

_I wish I were reading a book or a newspaper_, thinks Stirling, her eyes moving back to Joe. _Is he reading that newspaper upside down?_

Before she can get a really good look, Peter is back with the drinks.

"An ice water for the lady," he says, placing a glass before her. "And for the gentleman, a double whiskey."

_Gentleman indeed_, thinks Stirling, taking a sip of her water. As the bitter taste hits her taste buds, she grimaces.

"This isn't water," she manages to cough out, looking up at Peter with a look of surprise.

"It has water in it," he says with a smile. "It's vodka and water. I just can't believe you would come to a pub and not have a proper drink. Come on, live a little."

He raises his own glass and takes a gulp of whiskey.

"Relax, have some fun."

Stirling is livid. Suddenly, she senses movement under the table and feels something rubbing on the inside of her leg, moving upwards. Looking down in horror, she realizes Peter has removed his shoe and is massaging his foot on her leg.

She's on her feet in a flash, moving so quickly she knocks her chair over backwards. Every head in the room turns her way.

"Lighten up, sweetheart," says Peter in a condescending tone, looking up at her from his chair. "Go with the flow."

With a satisfying twist of her wrist, Stirling empties her drink, ice and all, across his face and down his shirt.

"Only dead fish go with the flow. Sod off, you bloody wanker," she snarls and marches toward the exit.

"Why you little ..."

She hears a bustle of movement behind her but Stirling never looks back. With her head up and chin high, she marches out of the dining room, through the pub and back toward home.

**15 minutes earlier**

Joe sees Stirling as soon as she enters the room. She's impossible not to notice in her snug blue jeans and fire red blouse. She's wearing her hair down. She's stunning.

_But what is she doing here?_ he thinks.

For one wild, thrilling moment, Joe imagines she's there to be with him; that she'll slide into the booth space across from him and they'll have dinner together. But she walks right past him toward Peter Simmons' table.

_Peter Simmons?_ he thinks. _The guy's a notorious letch. But she probably doesn't know that_.

He's been considering paying his bill and heading home for the night but he decides to stay and have a pint.

_Just to monitor the situation_, he tells himself.

Joe can barely sit still as he watches Peter Simmons touch Stirling's back. It's obvious she doesn't like it as she flinches. Now he's leaning across the table, trying to get into her personal space.

_What a tosser!_ he grumbles in his head.

Joe realizes he's openly staring at the couple and glances around for something to use as a shield for his spying. He grabs a newspaper abandoned at a table beside him and folds it in half.

_This will work_, he thinks as he pretends to read the articles while peeking over the top at the couple across the room.

When Peter grabs Stirling's hand, Joe seriously thinks about walking over and punching the man. But she manages to extricate it from his grasp without incident and Joe wonders if maybe he has finally given up.

When Peter stands up and heads for the bar, Joe watches Stirling flinch again.

_Now the letch is touching her shoulder!_ he thinks.

He's trying to decide what to do when he notices Stirling looking about the room. He quickly holds up the newspaper and pretends he's reading. By the time he notices the newspaper is upside down, it's too late. She's already looking his way.

Luckily Peter returns with the drinks.

_Maybe she didn't notice_, Joe hopes.

He watches as she takes a sip of her drink, grimaces and coughs. She looks angry. Her voice is raised. He watches in mute fascination as she jumps up from the table, knocking over her chair. Peter says something to her and is suddenly wearing her drink.

"Only dead fish go with the flow. Sod off, you bloody wanker," Stirling snarls and marches away from the table.

_What a woman!_ thinks Joe.

He is silently snickering to himself as Stirling marches by his booth. But he moves fast when he realizes a very unhappy looking Peter is quickly coming after her.

"Hold up there, Pete," says Joe, grabbing the man's arm as he tries to race past him.

"Let go, Penhale," the man yells, trying to yank his arm free. "Mind your own bloody business."

"Well, unfortunately you've made it my business by causing a scene in a public place," says Joe calmly.

"I didn't cause the scene, she did!"

"Really? All I saw was a lady get up and leave the table of a man who was harassing her. Did she ask you to hold her hand? Or touch her shoulder? It didn't look like it to me. I can charge you with assault. What if I have the contents of that drink analyzed? What am I going to find, hey Pete?"

A small crowd forms in the doorway of the dining room as patrons from the pub jam in to see what all the fuss is about. Morwenna and Al push through to get a better look.

"You can't arrest me," Peter shouts, pulling even harder against Joe's grip. "You're not even on duty."

"I'm always on duty, Pete, 24/7," says Joe. "I just happen to be in plainclothes tonight. Surveillance."

"Then why are you drinking on duty?" Peter challenges, pointing to the full pint glass at Joe's table.

"Camouflage. I haven't taken one sip from that glass."

Peter yells in frustration and wildly tries to yank his arm free. Joe gives it a twist, causing the school teacher to scream in pain.

"Now, are you going to settle down?" Joe asks calmly.

Peter nods his head.

"Are you going to pay your bill and head home?"

Peter nods again, slowly.

"Are you going to leave the lady alone?"

"She threw a drink in my face," Peter whines. "Isn't that a form of assault?"

"From what I observed, you deserved it," says Joe. "For the second time, are you going to leave the lady alone?"

"Yes," Peter yells, nodding his head emphatically.

Joe lets go of his arm and gives Peter a shove.

"Get out of here."

Peter turns toward Joe, cocking his arm back like he's preparing to throw a punch. Joe stares at him.

"Give me an excuse, Simmons," he says quietly. "Just try it."

The room is silent as the two men stare one another down. The seconds tick by. Peter lowers his arm and walks away.

The rest of the pub patrons stare at Joe in amazement. This is a side of the village police constable they've never seen before. Many watch with a new found respect as he gathers up his hand held TETRA radio and heads to the bar to pay for his meal and untouched pint.


	10. Chapter 9

Joe's only just left The Crab and Lobster when an alarm signal comes across his radio and he hears his badge number.

"This is PC Penhale, 3021," he responds into the hand held.

"We have a report of a two vehicle RTA on DeLank Road, Bodemin Moor, possible fatalities. Ambulance is on route but you will need medical backup until it arrives."

"I'm on my way," says Joe, running toward his Land Rover.

"3021, do you wish us to contact local medical backup?"

"Negative," he says jumping into the seat and starting the engine. "She's very near my location. I'll pick her up on my way. 3021 out."

Joe drives up the hill to the surgery and pounds on the front door.

Stirling throws it open in alarm. She is still wearing the clothes from her date. Before she can say a word, Joe steps inside.

"Grab your bag," he says. "There's a serious RTA out on the moor. They need police and medical assistance."

_RTA?_ She thinks. _Road traffic accident_.

Stirling runs to the consulting room and grabs her doctor's bag. She also collects any extra supplies she thinks she might need for someone injured in a car accident. She snags her anorak from the front peg on the way out the door.

She jumps into the front passenger seat of the Land Rover and Joe quickly reverses and turns the vehicle around using the parking lot beside the surgery. Within minutes they are speeding out of town, lights flashing and siren wailing.

"How many people are involved?" she asks.

"At least two," says Joe, pushing hard on the accelerator. "The witness who called it in didn't give an exact number. The only thing I know for sure is there may be fatalities."

Stirling reaches behind her and pulls her seat belt across, snapping it into place. She braces herself as best she can against the door frame, trying to stop her head from bouncing off the cab roof. It's a rough ride.

Both are silent most of the way to the scene, each considering the possible scenarios that await them. A few miles up DeLank Road, Joe spots a light on the road ahead. He slows down and pulls up beside a grey haired lady holding a high-powered flashlight.

"The cars are just ahead," she says. "One's upside down on the right side of the road. The other crashed head on into a rock out cropping on the left side."

"Has the fire service arrived yet?" Joe asks the distressed woman, who shakes her head in the negative.

He thanks her and drives ahead, his headlights eventually illuminating the rock and smashed car. He pulls over and grabs a torch out of a storage bin in the dash. As he jumps out of the Land Rover, he reaches behind his seat and grabs a pry bar. Stirling fishes her own torch out of her bag and scrambles out of the vehicle, trotting over to the driver's side of the crumpled car.

A middle-aged man lies slumped over the steering wheel, buoyed up by his vehicle's air bag. He groans as Sterling gently touches his neck, checking his pulse. It's strong.

"Sir, can you hear me?" asks Sterling, backing away slightly as Joe forces open the driver's side door using the pry bar.

The man moans again and manages to move himself upright, flopping his head against the back of the seat.

"What happened?" he whispers.

"You've been in a traffic accident," explains Stirling, shining her light around his face and head. He has a deep cut above his left eye and his nose is obviously broken.

"Can you tell me where it hurts most?" she asks, shining the torch further down his body and feeling with her hands. His right ankle looks crushed and she's pretty certain he's bruised or broken some ribs.

"My left leg," he moans. "And my chest. It hurts when I breathe."

Stirling stands up and shines her torch throughout the rest of the car, looking for passengers.

"Were you alone in the car?" she asks.

"Yes," he whispers again.

Stirling turns to Joe, who has been assessing the vehicle.

"He's fairly stable at the moment," she says. "One of his ankles is crushed and the way he's jammed in there, the fire service is going to have to cut him out."

She looks down at the pry bar in Joe's hand.

"I guess we could pry him out if we need to but I don't really want to move him unless I have to. Is the car safe?"

"Don't light a fag near it," he says. "But nothing's sparking or smoking."

"Good."

Stirling unfurls a blanket and places it over the injured driver, making sure he's covered from his neck to his feet.

"I have to check on the people in the other car," she tells the man. "I won't be too far away. Don't worry, an ambulance is on its way."

She grabs her bag and she trots across the road, Joe close behind her. They both shine the beams of their torches around the area, trying to spot the second car. In the distance, the sound of sirens can be heard.

The beam from Joe's eventually lands on a tire poking out of marshy water. It's still spinning.

"Oh my god," says Stirling, kicking off her boots and removing her tweed jacket.

"What the hell are you doing?" asks Joe, kicking off his own boots as she wades into the water.

"I have to check," she says, going under.

"Crazy woman," Joe mutters. "That's my job."

After throwing off his anorak, he wades in after her, clutching his waterproof torch.

The water is only about waist deep but it's murky, the bottom mud sucking at his feet. Joe points the beam of light where he expects the car to be and puts his head under. He manages to illuminate Stirling who is on her knees beside the driver side door, trying to smash the window with a rock she has found. Joe squats down beside her and uses the heavy end of his torch to crack the glass. Together they pull out the window, exposing a young woman suspended upside down by her seat belt. Pulling a folding knife from his pocket, Joe saws through the belt. He's quickly running out of air and he knows Stirling can't last much longer. He manages to yank the young woman out the driver's side window and they all come to the surface.

Panting, Joe and Stirling drag the woman out of the water. Stirling immediately begins CPR, counting out as she puffs air into her lungs and compresses her chest.

The sirens are much closer now and as Joe looks up, he can see flashing lights approaching in the distance.

"It looks like the fire service is here," he says. "I have to go inform these guys about what's going on. Are you okay?"

She continues the rhythm, nodding to Joe between the puffs and the chest compressions.

He sprints through the underbrush, going to meet the emergency vehicles arriving at the road.

With the wail of sirens in the background and the sound of raised voices and slamming doors, Stirling continues to work on the woman. In her mind, she is calculating the amount of time the driver could have been under the water before they pulled her out.

_It's been too long_, she thinks.

But Stirling is hesitant to give up. Even though her own lungs are burning in protest, she continues to count out the rhythm. Her persistence pays off when a spout of water erupts from the driver's mouth followed by a gurgling gasp. She immediately turns the young woman to the recovery position, hoping to drain more water from her lungs. She checks her pulse, which is almost nonexistent.

"Can you hear me?" she shouts in her ear, then putting her head beside the woman's blue lips. The driver is trying to communicate and Stirling strains to understand.

"Nydad, mybad, mybab," she mutters to herself, as she covers the woman with a blanket.

Stirling pauses for a moment and then she is in motion, grabbing Joe's torch from the ground next to her and running back into the water toward the partially submerged car.

Joe is watching the fire service prepping the other driver for extraction from the crumpled car when he thinks he hears the sound of splashing coming from behind him. He turns and looks, noticing a light bobbing in the marshy water.

"Stirling!" he shouts.

The light promptly disappears.

* * *

_The water's colder the second time_, Stirling thinks as she squats beside the submerged passenger side door and shines the torch light through the glass. She can see nothing. She tips the beam upwards and thinks she sees movement. She smashes the torch handle against the glass and pulls away the window. A big bubble of air floats out through the opening and ascends, popping at the surface.

_Maybe there's an air bubble! _she considers_._

Stirling breaks the surface and takes a big breath of air. She can hear more sirens in the distance and the sound of someone shouting her name. She ducks back under and pulls herself through the window opening into the rear area of the car. As she stands up, her head enters a small air bubble trapped where the back and bottom cushions of the rear bench seating meet. There's just enough height for her head to fit. Beside her bob two little heads - a boy and a girl. They look to be between six and eight but Stirling can't be sure.

Fighting back her surprise and shock, she tries to remain calm.

"Hiya," she says brightly "I'm Stirling. What are your names?"

The children look at her big eyed. Finally the girl, apparently the older of the two, says: "Sarah." The little boy quickly adds: "Roger."

Suddenly with some bubbling and a gasp, Joe's head pops up next to Stirling.

It's getting very crowded in the backseat.

"What the hell ..." he starts but Stirling cuts him off.

"Sarah and Roger, this is my good friend, Joe. He and I are going to get you out of here."

Joe looks at the two children, then Stirling, and then the children again.

"Do you guys know how to hold your breath?" he asks, making a big show of taking a gulp of air and popping under water and then back up. "Like when you bob in the pool or the tub?"

The two kids nod their heads.

"When Stirling and I tell you to, take a really big breath and hold it," he says.

He turns to Stirling.

"Both the back passenger windows are smashed," he explains. "You go out the left one, I'll go out the right."

"Which left and which right?" Stirling asks, suddenly confused.

Joe pauses for a moment.

"If you're facing the front of the car, you go out the left side window and I'll go out the right."

"Okay."

"You take the little girl, I'll take the boy," he says.

Stirling has Sarah wrap her arms around her and she grabs the little girl as tight as she can. The little boy clings to Joe like a spider monkey.

"Okay, one, two, three, big breath," he says.

Everyone takes in a big gasp of stale air and dives under the water, Stirling moving left and Joe right. She manages to squirm through the window with Sarah tight against her and quickly pops to the surface. The little girl coughs up a bit of water but is soon breathing fine.

"Joe!" Stirling calls. "Joe!"

She can hear voices close by and see the flashing lights of an arriving ambulance. But on the water, it's silent.

"Joe!" she yells, panic beginning to edge her voice.

"Over here," he calls and wades into view from the far side of the car, Roger clinging to his chest.

"Thank god," breathes Stirling with relief.

The pair of them wades out of the water carrying their little charges, collapsing on the grassy bank as the adrenaline rush wears off.

"I see someone over here," cries a disembodied voice and soon an ambulance attendant and some fire service personnel are beside them, wrapping the children in blankets and whisking them off to the ambulance.

"How's the mother?" Stirling asks, grabbing the arm of the ambulance attendant.

"She didn't make it," he says, handing her a blanket before rushing back to the ambulance.

_Damn_, she thinks, even though she's really not surprised.

It was a miracle she had been able to bring the young woman back even for that brief amount of time.

_She'd been under the water too long_.

Stirling and Joe sit side-by-side on the grassy bank, shivering slightly, even with blankets over their shoulders.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," she answers. "Just very wet and a bit chilled."

She grabs her doctor's bag and turns to help Joe to his feet. Collecting their boots and anoraks, they shuffle through the underbrush back to the road and the Land Rover.

Two ambulances are set to leave as they walk into the headlights.

"Are you two alright?" one of the drivers calls.

"We're fine," yells Stirling. "Get going."

They both light up and drive off into the night, sirens wailing.

The fire service is busy collecting its gear while two recovery trucks sit parked by the side of the road. Two men are working to attach tow cables to the man's crumpled car.

"You look kind of cold," says Joe, grabbing her arm to feel her temperature. "It can get cold here at night due to the higher elevations and the wind. Not a good combination when you're soaked."

They both shiver as a cool breeze washes over them.

"Maybe you could start the Land Rover and put the heater on," Stirling says, taking off her blanket and setting it on the bonnet.

Joe does as she says and climbs back out.

"I have to have a quick talk with the recovery guys and get a debrief from the fire service," he says. "It might take a little while. You should wait in the vehicle where it's warmer."

He's surprised as Stirling begins unbuttoning her blouse.

"Are you taking off your clothes?" he asks uncertainly.

"Yes. They are soaked. I'm never going to get warm wearing wet clothes."

Joe watches wide-eyed as she removes her blouse, showing a pink lace bra underneath. She reaches around behind her to undo the clasp and Joe turns his back, marching toward the fire service vehicles.

Stirling quietly curses her wet blue jeans as she tries to shimmy out of them, eventually managing to kick them off.

She wraps herself in her blanket, tight under the arms like a bath towel. It's just long enough to cover her private areas. She sets her doctor's bag and wet clothes in the back of the Land Rover and climbs in the passenger side.

She leans back against the warm seat, enjoying the hot blast of air coming from the heater. Comfortable and finally warm, she eventually falls asleep, curled on her side with her cheek pressed against the back of the seat.

* * *

About half an hour later, both cars cleared away and the road open again, Joe walks back to the Land Rover, chilled to the bone thanks to his wet clothes. He opens the drivers' side door and is met with a blast of wonderful warmth. He notices Stirling, curled on her right side facing him, sound asleep.

He feels like he could stand there looking at her all night, at her damp hair sticking to her shoulders in ringlets and her long, bare legs. But he turns his head, nervous and shy.

A strong breeze whistles down the road and Joe shivers, his teeth starting to chatter. Joe stands beside the Land Rover for a moment, looking up and down the road, before pulling off his wet T-shirt and unbuttoning his soaked trousers.

_Sure, get starkers on the side of the road_, he thinks, cursing his wet blue jeans as he tries to shimmy out of them. _After all, you're never going to get warm wearing wet clothes_.

He wraps his blanket around his waist and throws his clothes in the back of the Land Rover before jumping into the cab.

The slamming of his door startles Stirling awake. She yawns and stretches, wiping at her eyes.

"What time is it?" she asks sleepily, sitting up in the seat.

Joe glances at his watch.

"Half two in the morning," he says.

She groans and looks over at him.

"Are you naked?" she asks, suddenly wide awake.

"No, I have a blanket on, same as you."

"Why?"

"I was freezing," he says defensively. "And you said we were never going to get warm wearing wet clothes."

She gives a nervous gulp.

"Are you warmer?" she asks.

She feels like she could sit there looking at him all night, his muscular arms and chest, the path of hair on his abdomen. But she turns her head, embarrassed by the feelings rising within her.

"Yes, thanks," he says. "I can finally feel my feet again."

They both turn their heads and look at each other from opposite ends of the Land Rover cab. There's an energy, a tension in the space. Both can sense it. Joe is excited by it. Stirling is terrified. The moment passes and she let's out a large gust of air. She hadn't even noticed she was holding her breath.

"Home then?" asks Joe, starting the Land Rover.

The trip back to the village starts out quiet, both lost in their thoughts.

It's Joe who finally breaks the silence.

"I heard you on the radio," he says.

Stirling flinches at the memory.

"What? You were fantastic," he says with enthusiasm. "I've never heard anyone play the piano like that except on the radio."

He thinks about what he's just said.

"I mean, like a famous person on the Beeb, not someone from Portwenn."

He's not sure that's any better.

"What I mean is, you play the piano very well."

Stirling smiles.

"Thank you."

"How long have you been playing?"

"I started when I was three."

"Cor, when I was three, I was in the back garden playing with my Action Man."

Stirling smiles ruefully.

"You didn't have my mum. She taught me until I advanced past her abilities. After that, it was a long succession of piano teachers, right up until I was 10."

"What happened when you were 10?"

"My parents were killed in a road traffic accident. After that, there was no extra money for piano lessons."

"I'm sorry," says Joe solemnly.

"That's okay. I just taught myself from books and tapes."

"No, I mean I'm sorry about your parents."

"Oh," says Stirling, feeling like a dim wit.

"That's a young age to lose your mum and dad," says Joe.

"My sister and her husband moved to the farm and took care of me."

"Her husband?"

"My sis - Emily - she's 10 years older than me. She and Robert were basically newlyweds when the accident happened."

Joe does the math quickly in his head.

"She married young."

"She had to," says Stirling matter-of-factly. "She was carrying on with the local bobby. Back seats of patrol cars, dark alleys, back room of the police station. She ended up the duff. Wouldn't look too good if he did that to the local veterinarian's oldest daughter and didn't marry her."

Joe blushes, feeling uncomfortable with the current subject matter.

"So your sister is married to a police constable."

"A sergeant in the Yorkshire force. My sis runs the farm and he keeps the peace in the neighbourhood. He's mostly chasing poachers, livestock thieves the neighbourhood drunks. They have two kids, Roberta and Richard."

Stirling finds herself warming to the topic.

"Robert's a great bloke. He's like an older brother. My sis and I, we're very different people; different personalities; oil and water. Robert understands me. He ends up being the peacekeeper at home too. Poor bugger."

She sits quietly for a few minutes.

"Do you have any sibs besides Sam?"

"No, just him."

"And Sam works for a decorating contractor if I recall."

"Before that, he was being detained at Her Majesty's Pleasure," says Joe.

"He's been in the nick?" asks Stirling, looking surprised. "What did he do?"

"Sam's a right talented painter; portraits, landscapes. He was caught forging paintings, selling them as originals. I guess he made quite a wad at it. Ended up poisoning himself while making homemade lead paint. Unfortunately, the home was mine. The Doc figured it all out. I felt like quite the idiot. Couldn't see what was right in front of me."

Stirling is silent for a while.

"It's hard to think badly about someone you care about," she says quietly. "People can tell you up and down a person's a no good wanker. But until you see it or experience it yourself, you never believe or suspect it."

Joe looks over at her.

"Sounds like you speak from experience."

"You could say that," Stirling says softly, staring out at the dark world passing outside the windscreen.

In no time at all, Joe is stopping the Land Rover by the front door of the surgery.

"You were amazing tonight," he says. "The way you waded into that marsh, how you found those kids."

"You were pretty amazing yourself," Stirling says shyly.

"I was just following you," says Joe, climbing out of the vehicle and tying his blanket more firmly around his waist. "We better dig your kit out of the back."

Stirling climbs out her side and pads in bare feet to the back of the vehicle. They sort out her clothes from the sodden pile plus her boots and anorak. She grabs her doctor's bag and turns to Joe.

"It's been an interesting evening," she says. "Pleasure working with you."

"Likewise," says Joe, his turn to be shy. "Maybe we can do it again. But without the smashed cars, injured people and marshy water."

_You idiot_, he thinks to himself.

Stirling laughs tiredly as she climbs the stairs onto the surgery's front terrace and walks to the front entrance. She digs her keys from her doctor's bag and opens the door. She's about to close it behind her when Joe calls out to her.

"Stirling!"

She looks back.

"You're quite something," he says, admiration in his voice. "You're really quite something."

Stirling pauses, uncertain what to think of this pronouncement.

"Thank you," she says and closes the door softly behind her.


	11. Chapter 10

It's only the firm and insistent demands of Bucephalus that manage to force Stirling out of bed just a few hours later. She's exhausted and still has a half-day's worth of patients to see.

"Lucky me," she mutters to herself as she dresses to walk the dog.

She should also check up on the people from the accident last night.

The wind has a bit of a bite to it, perhaps a sign of the approaching fall, as she and Bucephalus climb the hill to a grassy expanse of field along the cliff top, high above the village. This is a daily ritual for the pair - it helps Stirling become fully conscious and it provides Bucephalus an opportunity to stretch his long Great Dane legs.

The dog is soon off chasing the scent of a rabbit. Stirling lets out a huge yawn as she settles onto her favourite bench that just happens to have a stunning view of the sea. She leans back, closes her eyes and stretches out her legs, mentally begging for a few more minutes sleep. She almost manages to nod off when she hears a panting noise behind her. At first she thinks it's Bucephalus, returning from his scamper, but it sounds too human-like. She opens her eyes and screams. There's a strange man looming above her and he's upside down.

She jumps off the bench, realizing the man isn't actually upside down; her head had been stretched so far back, everything had just looked upside down.

"Who are you?" she asks, her hands at the ready in case she has to protect herself.

"I'm your first appointment," says the tall man rather good naturedly. "Dr. Ellingham said I would probably find you up here."

Stirling looks at her watch.

"You woke the Chief up at this hour of the morning?"

"Well, the surgery was locked and no one was answering the door," he says, leaning up against the bench.

"That's because the surgery doesn't open until 8:30," Stirling explains, searching the distance for Bucephalus.

"I guess I'm a bit early," the man says with a smile.

"A bit! It's 7!"

"I usually get up early to check the roads and the trails. The early bird catches the poacher."

"You're the park ranger?" asks Stirling.

"Yes. Stewart James," he says extending his hand. "And you're Dr. Aylesworth or Doc Stirling as I'm sure everyone in Portwenn is calling you."

She shakes his hand cautiously.

"I'm really not one for crowds, lots of people. I came in early hoping I could beat the waiting room crush."

"Oh, you've beat it alright," says Stirling, putting her fingers to her mouth and letting out a loud whistle.

Stewart covers his ears in pain.

"That's loud," he protests.

With a bark of joy, Bucephalus comes bounding over a small hill and runs toward Stirling. Stewart looks horrified.

"What the hell is that?"

"It's a dog," she says, giving him a strange look.

_What is it with men around here and dogs?_ she thinks.

"Do you know how much damage a dog that size can do to an ecosystem? How many squirrels and rabbits it can destroy in a day?"

"You obviously don't know this dog," says Stirling, laughing. "He can kill exactly zero squirrels and rabbits in a day. He'd starve to death if he couldn't find his dish."

Bucephalus bounds to a stop in front of Stirling and then turns to look at Stewart. With a woof, he jumps up, putting his front paws on Stewart's shoulders. The man almost falls to the ground.

"Get it off me," he screams, terrified.

Stirling's tempted to laugh but understands how intimidating a Great Dane looking you in the eye can be.

"Off," she commands.

Bucephalus drops his front feet to the ground, looking somewhat embarrassed.

"He actually paid you quite a compliment," Stirling says, walking back toward the surgery with Stewart keeping pace beside her. "He doesn't jump up on just anyone, you know. The only other person he's done that to around here is PC Penhale. Of course, Bucephalus did give him big sloppy kisses. But you screamed louder."

Stewart gives her a dirty look as she smiles at him.

When they finally reach the surgery, Stirling unlocks the front door and Bucephalus bounds in, heading for the bed upstairs.

"Just go through to the consulting room," she says, digging through the filing cabinet for Stewart's patient folder, which turns out to be a rather thick, bedraggled, and smudged mess.

"I hope this isn't indicative of your personal health," Stirling says, sitting at the doctor's desk and carefully removing the elastic band that holds the mass of papers together.

"I believe there was a flood once in the surgery and it was damaged then," Stewart explains, sitting gingerly in a chair across the desk from Stirling, who is busy speed reading his patient notes.

She's familiar with the park ranger, having been told all about his idiosyncrasies by Morwenna when he had made the appointment to come in. Originally, he had wanted a home visit but the Chief was adamant that he attend the surgery. The doctor had then spent half an hour briefing Stirling on what to expect from Stewart during his visit and what symptoms to look for, including paranoia and any discussion of Anthony, his imaginary six-foot tall red squirrel friend. She's actually been looking forward to this visit, just not at 7 on a Saturday morning.

"So what can I do for you Stewart?" she asks, sitting back in her chair and fighting back a yawn. "What brings you in to see me?"

He looks uncomfortable and squirms slightly in his chair, which he is sitting right on the edge of.

"I've been having problems with a rash for the past few days," he says. "Being out in the woods, you step into a patch of nettles or pick up thorns in your arms and hands. But about two or three days ago, I came into contact with ... something and the resulting rash has been very painful. I've tried all the lotions and remedies I know; nothing helps."

"Where's the rash?"

"It started on my knee and has spread."

Stirling stands up.

"Okay, off with your trousers and up on the examination couch," she says, grabbing some latex gloves and pulling them on. She slides some protective paper off the roll on the couch for Stewart to sit on and turns around.

Although he's stood up, Stewart's not moving.

"Take off your kit, just your trousers," Stirling repeats.

He looks at her helplessly.

"I can't just roll up my cuff for you to look?" he asks.

Stirling feels a twinge of annoyance.

"No, I need to see where this rash originated on your body and where it has spread," she says, an edge to her voice. "The only way I can do so is if you remove your trousers. Now, if this proves difficult for you, I can arrange to have your trousers removed for you."

He gives her a strange look.

"Are you offering to undress me?"

"If it hurries the process along, I'm willing to cut your trousers off you," she says angrily. "And you can go home in just your skivvies."

Stewart quickly kicks off his hiking boots, undoes his belt, unbuttons his trousers and pulls them down and off. Throwing them over the chair he was sitting on, he hops onto the end of the examination couch.

The rash is extensive and actually looks more like a burn to Stirling. It covers Stewart's upper thighs and appears to go all around the upper area of both legs. There is no rash on his knees.

She looks up at him, annoyed.

"This rash didn't start on your knee at all, did it?"

He bashfully shakes his head.

"Lay down and roll over," she says brusquely.

The back of Stewart's thighs are worse and the burn-like rash continues up under his boxer shorts.

"You're going to need to take your boxers off," she says, handing him a white cotton sheet. "You can use this to cover yourself if you're shy."

Stewart rolls over onto his back again and looks at her, fear in his eyes.

"You want me starkers?" he whispers.

Stirling sighs.

"I'm a doctor. I have seen male anatomy before. I have lost track of the number of penises and testicles I have seen in my career. What makes you think yours are going to stand out for me any more than the others?"

The park ranger doesn't look convinced as he arches his bum off the examination couch and pulls down his boxers.

Stirling's eyes widen and she gives a low whistle.

"That's just nasty!" she exclaims, bending over to get a closer look at Stewart's groin area.

The rash is worse here and has covered his testicles, penis and pelvic area. Some of the pustules have burst and are oozing liquid.

"Can you roll over?" she asks, mesmerized by the damage.

His bum is covered as well.

"Okay," she says, stepping back. "You can cover up for now."

She walks over to one of the medical cupboards and pulls out a sterile sample container and a long cotton bud.

Stewart has flipped over onto his back and covered himself from the waist down. She flips back the sheet and gently wipes one of his oozing sores with the cotton bud. She puts the contaminated end into the sterile container and cuts the rest of the stick off before sealing the segment into the sample bottle.

"You've had this for a few days?" she asks, setting the container on her desk.

"About two or three," says Stewart, sitting up.

"What were you doing just before the symptoms started?"

"Well," he says, thinking back. "They started in the evening about two days ago. That day, I had been monitoring a river area for poacher traps. They like to set them on game trails leading to the water."

"Did you sit down somewhere or fall during the hike?" she asks.

Stewart looks embarrassed.

"I had to relieve myself," he says.

"Relieve yourself?"

"I squatted down in a clear area and then used some leaves after," he explains.

Stirling stares at Stewart for a moment.

_Poor guy_, she thinks.

"I think you sat in some giant hogweed," she says, returning to the desk and sitting down. "You can get dressed," she adds, pulling off her gloves and throwing them in the trash.

She writes some directions on a prescription pad and rips off the sheet of paper.

"I've written you a prescription for some steroid cream. It should do the trick. Don't be surprised if your skin turns colour where the lesions are. As it heals, new skin will grow. If it doesn't clear up in a week, come back and see me."

"Giant hogweed," says Stewart, pulling up his trousers. "I've been around that plant lots of times. I've never had a reaction like this."

"Do you always stick your bum and groin into giant hogweed?" Stirling asks. "It's a tender area. As well, people can develop allergic reactions to plants and animals over time. You might get stung by a bee one day and be fine. Two stings later, you could go into anaphylaxis and die."

"Cheery thought," Stewart says, picking up his prescription slip. "Do you think the Chemist will be open?"

Stirling looks at her watch.

"At 7:45 on a Saturday morning? Not likely."

"Do you mind if I wait here and watch your telly? I don't have one and Doc used to let me watch his from time to time."

Stirling looks at him like he's lost his mind.

"I don't have a television," she says apologetically. "They might be serving breakfast over at Large's Restaurant by now."

"Yeah," says Stewart, his smile fading. "I guess I'll wait over there. Pleasure meeting you Dr. Aylesworth. You ever get up to my neck of the woods, stop in. I'll take you for a hike to see some of the spots most visitors never get to see."

"I might take you up on that," she says, shaking his hand.

"But keep that beast of a dog of yours at home," he warns, heading out the door. "He can do a lot of damage, an animal like that."

After Stewart leaves, Stirling sits down in the desk chair and leans back, propping her shoes up on the desk blotter. She closes her eyes and tries to relax.

"Weird bloke," she thinks. "Obviously doesn't get out much."

In a few minutes, she's asleep.

As Stewart walks gingerly down the hill to Large's, he considers Portwenn's newest GP.

"Weird bird," he thinks. "She doesn't even own a telly."


	12. Chapter 11

Over the next few weeks, the dull weather of autumn begins to creep into the village, replacing the summer sunshine. With the change comes a decrease in the number of tourists wandering Portwenn. Soon, only local residents can be seen walking about, although the town's population continues to surge on sunny weekends.

Stirling is settling into her new home and establishing a routine. Most evenings, after surgery or house calls, she visits Large's Restaurant or the local pub for a quick meal. She usually brings a few medical journals with her so she can catch up on her reading, the Chief passing his copies on to her.

She is amazed by the number of area residents stopping in to the pub during the course of the evening to have a bite to eat or a pint or two. Sometimes, they stop to chat with her, obviously feeling as lonely as she is.

Other evenings, Stirling snacks on raw veggies, salad or a sandwich at home while she plays the acoustic guitar or the violin she found in the second-hand shop. It isn't a Stradivarius but it still produces a beautiful sound. On those nights, Bucephalus usually hides upstairs, sprawling on her bed.

Sunday nights, she dines with the Ellinghams. Stirling's not sure how this habit started; Louisa invited her over one Sunday evening and it grew from there. Now, she looks forward to it, a small taste of family normalcy in a week full of singleness. It's also a chance for her to play with James Henry, who she finds delightful. She usually brings a dessert of some sort, purchased since she can't cook or bake her way out of a wet paper bag. It's also typically something healthy, given the Chief's strong feeling about nutritious meals.

Some nights, Stirling runs into Joe at the pub, either eating his dinner or joining his team for pub quiz night. From time to time, they have their meals together, sharing stories about the day - Stirling always careful to maintain the confidentiality of her patients.

It's Joe who tells her about the upcoming Portwenn Talent Show, held every spring and fall.

"You should enter," he suggests one night, taking a bite of his shepherd's pie.

Stirling looks at him like he's crazy.

"Somehow, I doubt the Chief will approve of that."

"Why not?"

"Joe, you know the Doc. He's private, reserved. He thinks getting up on a stage and performing in public is beneath his station and thus, by extension, mine. He tolerates my playing because he likes the music - but classical only."

Stirling laughs.

"Could you imagine his reaction if I walked out on the Portwenn Village Hall stage wearing my Met police costume? I think he'd die from mortification."

Joe smiles at the mental image.

"I'm not suggesting you do that," he says. "But why not play the piano or the guitar and sing a song. What's the harm in that?"

Stirling shakes her head.

"And what do you do for the talent show?" she asks innocently.

Joe looks up sharply.

"I ensure the building meets fire code regulations, the number of audience members does not exceed the established building code limits, and that no exit doors are blocked, in case of an emergency."

"That sounds like a difficult talent to get across to the audience while on stage," she says, straight faced.

"I'm not part of the talent show. I ensure it runs safely," Joe says, an edge to his voice. "Public safety is not a laughing matter."

Stirling looks at him wide-eyed, using all of her self-control to keep from laughing in his face.

"I see, so you don't take part in the talent show because you're too busy maintaining public safety, but you think one of the village's GPs, who is busy maintaining the health and welfare of the community's citizens, should. Do I have that right?"

Joe sighs, wishing he never mentioned the subject.

"You have a talent. The village is hosting a talent show. I just thought you might want to showcase your talent at that show," he says, feeling flustered.

Stirling sits back in her chair and gives Joe the visual once over.

"I should teach you how to play the guitar," she says.

Now it's Joe's turn to look at her like she's crazy.

"No!" he says emphatically.

"Why not? It's easy."

"I have no musical talent," he says. "My talent is maintaining the law."

Now Stirling laughs.

"What?" Joe asks, sounding hurt.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I've never heard someone express their feelings about their career quite that way before."

Stirling picks away at her now cold beef pie. She looks up at Joe.

"What should I sing?" she asks.

"What?"

"What should I sing?"

"Where?"

She sighs in frustration.

"At the talent show. It's your great idea. What should I sing?"

Joe thinks for a moment.

"I have no idea. You must have a favourite song. Just sing what you want to. But not that Cheap Trick song and don't wear that costume. I don't think Portwenn's ready for that yet."

Stirling smiles.

"You've never told anyone about meeting me that night, have you?" she asks, watching him carefully. "Why not?"

Joe colours slightly. He thinks for a moment.

"I didn't think it was anyone's business," he says. "Like you said, you had to pay the bills somehow. This is a small village. People might not understand."

Stirling looks down at her plate for a moment.

"Thanks, Joe," she says, giving him a smile. "I appreciate your discretion."

He doesn't tell her it's a memory he treasures so much that he would never dream of sharing it with anyone else and that he thinks of that night in Bristol every day. He's afraid she might not understand or, worse still, run away.

* * *

The night of Portwenn's Fall Talent Extravaganza is wet, cold and blustery.

Stirling, uncertain how the Chief will react to her performing in public, has worked hard to keep the fact she's taking part in the event a secret. Knowing his private and withdrawn ways, she's hopeful he won't bother to attend the evening.

_What he doesn't know won't hurt him_, she thinks.

Of course, considering the citizens of Portwenn, the fact she performs at all will quickly get back to him. She's decided she will deal with that when she's forced to.

According to the evening's schedule of events - which she's managed to keep her name out of - about 20 people from the area are taking part in the show, first prize being a trophy and a dinner for two at Large's Restaurant. Stirling arranged her performance with Roger Fenn, the master of ceremonies. He's placed her in the 10th spot, just before a 15-minute refreshment break.

_Great_, she thinks. _All that stands between the audience and a cold pint is me_.

The talent on display is rather eclectic. There are a handful of other singers, a juggler, a few bands, a couple of alleged comedians, two ventriloquist acts, a man who can do bird calls, and some dancers.

Considering her years of experience, Stirling isn't usually nervous before a performance. But this is a new crowd. This isn't a bunch of drunken bobbies or a rowdy group of university students. She's not sure how the village will react to seeing one of their local doctors on stage.

She decides to sit toward the back of the audience to watch the other performers.

_Out of sight, out of mind_, she thinks ruefully, wondering for the one hundredth time if she's making a huge mistake.

Slowly, the room begins to fill, each person through the door carefully counted by Joe, who periodically checks his numbers against the fire and building code limits.

Stirling's stomach flips as she catches sight of Morwenna and Al entering the hall.

"Don't see me, don't see me," she whispers.

"Doc Stirling!" Morwenna cries. "I didn't know you were coming tonight."

Stirling puts on her best smile and waves. Morwenna and Al settle into chairs beside her, draping their wet coats over the seat backs to dry.

"It's beastly out there," says Morwenna, running her fingers through her damp hair. "I hope that doesn't keep people from coming out. This is going to be fun!" she says, grabbing Stirling's right hand and squeezing it in excitement.

_Oh yeah!_ thinks Stirling.

The village hall begins to fill quickly as the minutes tick closer to the start of the show. Finally, the people arriving slow to a trickle and Joe leaves to make his final inspection of the exit doors. It's only after he's returned to his spot at the back of the hall that he nods to Roger. The show can go on.

Stirling giggles at the officiousness of the whole thing, causing Morwenna to give her a strange look.

"Sorry," she says. "I'm just feeling a bit giddy. It's been a long day."

As the show gets underway, Stirling is surprised by how true Morwenna's comment is - it is a lot of fun. The singers are talented, the dancers amazing, the comedians humourous. She finds herself having such a good time she almost misses her cue to go backstage and prepare.

Stirling stands and excuses herself, explaining she needs to visit the ladies' loo. Morwenna offers to go with her.

"I'll be fine," she says. "Enjoy the show."

Stirling walks briskly up the side aisle and quickly ducks into a side hallway leading to the washrooms and the backstage. She makes a quick pit stop to check her hair, makeup and shake out some of her nerves.

_Break a leg_, she thinks to her reflection before walking out and down the backstage hallway.

She waits in the shadow of the wings for the performer before her, a young girl who can juggle, to finish. As the audience applauds, she hears Roger announce there will be one more performer before the break, a last minute entry. The crowd stills as the lights in the hall darken.

Stirling walks quietly and carefully onto the stage, following the edge of the baby grand piano to the bench. She settles herself comfortably before the keys and nods to Roger. A signal is sent out to the person controlling the lights and suddenly she is bathed in a blinding spotlight.

Stirling can hear the collective gasp of shock from the audience but she ignores it. She shuts her eyes, places her hands over the keyboard and plays the opening notes, which happens to involve performing an attention getting rolling glissando. She disappears into the music.

"The silicon chip inside her head gets switched to overload," she sings. "And nobody's going to go to school today, she's going to make them stay at home."

Absolute silence. That's what greets Stirling as the final deep note of the Boomtown Rats song _I Don't Like Mondays_ fades away. She opens her eyes and stares down at the keyboard, her fingers still vibrating from the effort. It's one of the few pieces of music she knows where every black key is played.

The silence stretches out longer and Stirling is horrified. Medical training provided her with a healthy dose of self-confidence but she's never had an audience go silent after a performance - ever. She glances out at the crowd from the corner of her eye and is met by a sea of open-mouthed faces. Is this good? Is this bad? Stirling's not sure.

She decides she might as well leave the stage. She can't sit here all night. As she pushes back the bench and stands, she hears a lone pair of hands clapping at the back of the room. She turns and looks. It's Morwenna, jumping up and down, squealing with excitement as she applauds. She's quickly joined by Al and Joe - minus the jumping and squealing. Then the entire audience is on its feet and the applause is deafening. But above it all, she can still hear Morwenna hooping and hollering with the odd shrill whistle from Al.

Stirling looks down at the keyboard and shuts the lid. She comes out from behind the piano and bows solemnly before she turns and walks off the stage.

_Thank god it's over_.

* * *

"I can't believe you won!" Morwenna shouts for the third time, admiring Stirling's very strange looking trophy.

"Why does it have a fish on it?" she keeps asking but no one seems to have an answer.

The small group is standing outside the village hall, sheltering from the wind. The rain has stopped but gusts continue to blow in from the sea. Most of the audience braved the gale and headed home after the show. But Morwenna and Al stayed behind to admire Stirling's hardware and revel in her victory.

"You were amazing!" gushes Morwenna, grabbing Stirling's shoulder. "When that spotlight came on and I saw it was you, I almost screamed."

Stirling believes Morwenna may actually be more excited about her win than she is herself.

"I better get going," she says, glancing at her watch. "I have a half day of surgery tomorrow. Goodnight you two. Careful walking home."

"Goodnight Doc," calls Al, grabbing Morwenna's hand, leading her into the brisk night.

Clutching her fish trophy, Stirling walks in the opposite direction, travelling down Rose Hill toward Fore Street and the harbour. Once there, she will turn onto Roscarrock Hill and walk up to the surgery. As she walks, she considers the evening's events. And how she will handle the Chief once he hears the news.

_It will probably beat me home_, she thinks with a smile.

She turns left onto Fore Street and sees the harbour ahead, dimly illuminated by a couple of lights on the sides of nearby buildings. High tide occurs around 10 p.m. this time of year so most of the village car park is covered in water, the waves lapping up the sloped surface.

The lights of The Crab and Lobster shine brightly into the night and Stirling can see most of the regulars lined up at the bar.

_It's a good night to be indoors with friends_, she thinks, stepping up onto the harbour wall to watch the small waves come into the protected area, the larger white caps crashing against the break wall further out. Stirling grips her long leather coat tighter as a cold gust of wind buffets her, bringing with it a light shower of sea spray. She can taste the salt on her lips.

As she stands there, a vehicle comes down Fore Street towards her, stopping beside the raised wall.

"It's a little dark and windy for wave watching, don't you think," says Joe, leaning out the Land Rover window.

"It smells and tastes wonderful," says Stirling, turning away from the sea and approaching the vehicle.

"Congratulations on your win," he says, nodding at the trophy.

"Please explain to me why there's a fish on it?" Stirling asks, desperate for an answer.

Joe takes the trophy from her and examines the creature on the top.

"It's the famed Portwenn singing fish," he says, handing it back.

"A singing fish," she answers, disbelief in her voice.

"Legend has it that on still summer nights, you can hear the fish singing in the waters of the harbour, its haunting song echoing off the break walls," says Joe. "Curious tourists wade into the sea, trying to catch it, but it just lures them deeper and deeper, hypnotizing them with its beautiful voice. We lose at least two, three tourists each year to the singing fish."

Stirling stares at Joe. His face is serious.

"That is the biggest porky I've ever heard in my life," she says, starting to laugh. She's soon bent over, gasping for air as she laughs uncontrollably.

Joe stares at her, straight-faced.

"I'm not joking," he says. "There really is a Portwenn singing fish. I've actually heard it."

"Oh my god!" Stirling gasps, tears streaming down her face from the laughter. "Just stop it! A singing fish! What codswallop!"

She grabs onto the Land Rover window to keep her balance as she continues to laugh. After a minute, she has herself under control.

"That's the best laugh I've had in a long time," she says, wiping her eyes. "Thank you. I think I needed that."

"You're welcome, I guess," says Joe, looking a bit hurt.

"You don't believe in the singing fish," he adds, shaking his head in disappointment. "You be careful next time you're in the water."

Joe starts the Land Rover and slowly drives away, making a wide turn and driving up Middle Street. Stirling watches the tail lights of his vehicle fade away, now uncertain whether he was joking with her or not.

"No way!" she mutters, turning and walking up Roscarrock Hill. She's still puzzling over the Portwenn singing fish as she unlocks the surgery back door.


	13. Chapter 12

Weeks pass and autumn turns to winter, bringing a whole new kind of atmosphere and weather to Portwenn. The wind picks up and large swells crash against the sea walls that protect the harbour. Along the cliff tops, the waves from the Celtic Sea are stunning to watch. Most winter mornings, Stirling can be found bundled up in her double breasted wool overcoat, which she acquired courtesy of the Yorkshire police force, walking the coast trail with Bucephalus. With her wool cap, mittens and muffler, she's well protected from the winds, which can be nippy in the early morning.

The pair usually meet Joe as he jogs the coastal trail most mornings. It's the part of the day that he most looks forward to - that first glimpse of Stirling, wool cap pulled down over her ears, hair blowing in the wind, her hands deep in her overcoat pockets, collar raised against the breeze, coattails flapping, staring off to where the sky and the sea meet. His pounding heart feels like it skips a beat when he sees her, so beautiful, almost like a wild creature sniffing the wind, preparing to leap from the cliff and dive into the surf below.

Most mornings he stops to rest and walk with her for a short time, talk about the weather, the latest happenings in Portwenn, what they have planned for the day. He never has the nerve to say to her the things he would really like to - how he'd like to take her to dinner and dancing one night, go for a walk together one Sunday afternoon hand-in-hand, how beautiful she looks in the morning light, how he still thinks about that night in Bristol when she kissed him.

Some mornings, their timing is off and they miss one another. For Joe, it's a heart sinking disappointment. For Stirling, it's like she's misplaced something. She usually spends the rest of the day trying to find it, whatever it is, but to no avail. She never connects the lost feeling with not having her morning talk with Joe. She never thinks of it.

It's a week before Christmas when a batch of bad weather hits. Rain, cold winds, and more rain pummel the area, just in time for Stirling's weekly home visits. Despite multiple layers of clothing and doubled socks, she ends up soaked and chilled after her Thursday visits. She spends most of the evening in the tub, trying to thaw out.

She decides to rethink her line of attack for Friday. She continues with the multi-layered clothing but decides to use an old pair of rain-slicker riding pants and a long oil-slicker riding coat as her outer layer. She wears a shower cap under her helmet and makes sure her boot tops stay covered by her riding pant cuffs.

One look at her and Morwenna starts laughing.

"I'm not suffering like I did yesterday," says Stirling crossly, gathering her charts and medical supplies.

She packs everything into the sidecar and buckles down the cover. Bucephalus will be staying home and dry; jammy bugger.

Her morning visits go well and she stops at a small roadside inn to have a warm lunch. Most of the patrons stare as she disrobes by the front entrance, leaving a large puddle behind. The barkeep is impressed she's travelling on a motorbike in such inclement weather.

"It's all I have," she explains. "I don't own a car; although if this continues, I might have to invest in one."

After a lovely warm meal and a cup of hot cocoa, Stirling redresses in her bulky ensemble and climbs back aboard the Triumph. Next stop - Stone Manor Farm and Alice and Frank Buchwald.

Stirling's been leaving the Buchwalds until the end of her rounds on Fridays because she likes to spend extra time with them. She and Alice have established a friendship and she enjoys talking with the young couple about the latest news and life off the moor.

Alice's decline has been slow, although she is bed bound now. Her vision is gone completely and her balance too unsteady even for visits to the washroom. Frank normally carries her when she needs to use the loo and he bathes her as well. A home care nurse visits once a week to see how they're getting on, as does Stirling, who also brings the weekly supply of morphine.

The rain is even heavier on Bodmin Moor and Stirling has a hard time dodging deep puddles and ruts on the road to Stone Manor Farm.

When she finally arrives, it takes her five minutes just to remove her outer layer. Frank finds the situation hilarious.

"I wasn't sure it was you," he says, laughing as Stirling almost falls over pulling off her rain pants. "It was only because of the Triumph I recognized you. Otherwise, I thought you were some burly travelling salesman."

He finds the shower cap extra humorous.

"That is a great idea," he says. "I'll have to try that next time I'm stuck on the moor in the rain searching for sheep."

The back sitting room, converted to Alice and Frank's bedroom, is cozy and warm and Stirling settles with a sigh into a deep armchair. Within minutes, a cat has curled up on her lap.

"How are you Alice?" she asks, petting the purring feline.

"It's been a good week," the red-head says with a smile. "The morphine pump has been a godsend. I haven't had any bad headache pain in weeks."

"I'm glad," says Stirling, rising from the chair. "Let me check your vitals."

After examining Alice and recording a few of the more important details in her patient folder, Stirling settles back down into her chair.

"What are you two planning for Christmas?" she asks, taking a sip from the glass of water Frank has brought her.

"Our families are coming to visit us," says Alice, obviously excited by the idea. "My mum and dad are coming from Truro, along with my sister, her husband and kids plus my little brother. Frank's parents are coming from Wadebridge plus his sister and family from Bude."

"Sounds like a full house," says Stirling. "How are you both going to manage?"

"They're bringing the meal with them," says Frank with a laugh. "I couldn't handle all that on my own. No, they're all going to come and we're going to celebrate Christmas. And Alice," he adds, looking at his wife with fondness.

"It might be my last Christmas," says Alice matter-of-factly. "I want to spend it surrounded by my family and the children."

"Christmas isn't really Christmas without the sound of children, is it?" says Stirling.

"Exactly," says Frank, holding Alice's hand.

"What are you doing for Christmas, Doc Stirling?" she asks.

"I haven't decided," Stirling admits. "It's too far to visit my family and I'm on call over the holidays for emergencies. I'll probably play some Christmas carols, read a book and go to bed early."

"Come join us," urges Alice.

"Yes, do," adds Frank.

Stirling smiles.

"No, you enjoy your family time. As I said, I'm on call and can't be too far from Portwenn. Someone might choke on a goose bone or something. Anyway, I have Bucephalus to keep me company over the holidays."

The three of them talk and visit for another half hour before Stirling rises and admits she needs to get back to the surgery.

"I have charts to finish and work to do," she says, leaning over and giving Alice a kiss on the cheek. "Have a Merry Christmas with your family, Al."

At the front door, she staggers back into her outer wear and gives Frank a quick peck on the cheek.

"She looks good today," she says. "Have a Merry Christmas and I'll see you in the New Year."

"Merry Christmas, Doc Stirling," Frank says, watching from the doorway as she starts the Triumph and drives out the lane.

The ride home is a treacherous one on the motorbike and Stirling soon finds herself splattered with mud. She had managed to keep warm and dry up to now but the Bodmin Moor roads soon have her drenched. Her teeth are chattering and her hands are shaking when she finally parks the Triumph outside the surgery. Her goggles are so mud-caked, she doesn't even notice the strange car parked in one of the spaces next door. She grabs her doctor's bag from the sidecar and staggers into the surgery.

"Doc Stirling, are you okay?" asks Morwenna, shocked as she shuffles through the door.

"I'm freezing," she says through chattering teeth, wrestling to remove her drenched boots, outer pants and coat. She hangs the items to drip in the front vestibule before padding bare foot into the waiting room, wiping the mud off her face with the sleeve of her pullover. She notices there are still a few patients scattered about the room waiting for the Chief.

Then she sees him, all six-foot, three-inches of him, wearing his ridiculous Old Etonian tie (which she told him gives the subliminal message of weakness since the stripes go down rather than up) and his spotless suit that had probably been hand sponged and pressed by Leyland that morning. As usual, his hair is perfect, his shave is close and he smells like a gigolo.

"This gentleman has been waiting to see you for the past hour," says Morwenna. "He says he's a friend of yours?"

He stands up from his chair and opens his arms wide.

"Who's my favourite manky tart?" he says with a smile.

"You pansy nancy boy," Stirling squeals and runs toward him, leaping into his arms.

Everyone in the waiting room stares in disbelief as the foul mouthed but stunningly dressed man spins a giggling Doc Stirling in a circle in the middle of the room before planting a long kiss on her lips. He then lets go and holds her at arm's length.

"Let me look at you," he says. "Panda, you're dripping wet!"

He puts his hand on her forehead as if checking her temperature..

"Are you feverish?" he asks, his voice full of concern. "Do you have a cough? Sniffles? Wait here, I'll get Christopher."

"Michael, don't fuss. I'm fine," she calls after him as he rushes out the front door.

Just then, the consulting room door opens and a limping patient exits.

"Keep your foot elevated for several hours each day," the Chief explains, handing the man a prescription. "Rub this on twice a day. If it doesn't improve in a week, come back and see us."

On his way to the filing cabinet, the Doc glances at Stirling.

"You're soaked," he says. "You're dripping all over the carpet."

"It's raining outside," she answers. "It's been raining for days. One tends to get wet doing house calls in the rain."

Just then, the front door opens and the well-dressed man is back with a second, equally well-dressed friend. This blond haired man wears no Old Etonian tie but his three-piece, pin-striped suit is impeccable and his dress shoes blinding.

"Look at her, Christopher," says Michael. "She's drenched. Just what kind of sweat shop are you running here?" he says angrily, turning to look at Dr. Ellingham.

"I beg your pardon!" the Doc answers testily.

Everyone in the waiting room sits back to watch the fireworks.

"Panda bear is soaked to the skin," Michael says angrily. "She has a delicate constitution, you know. She can't just get a cold or flu like everyone else; it might kill her," he adds melodramatically.

"Michael, calm down," says Stirling. She turns to the blond haired man. "It's great to see you again Christopher," she says giving him a big hug. "But can you please rein him in."

"Who the hell are you?" sputters Dr. Ellingham. "What the hell are you doing here? And who the hell is Panda bear?"

Christopher extends his hand and walks toward the Chief.

"It's a pleasure to meet you Dr. Ellingham. I'm Dr. Christopher Bond. This irate and annoying man is Michael Aubrey, Esquire. We are close friends of Dr. Aylesworth and have travelled down from London to see her. To us, she's known as Ling-Ling, which Michael likes to think of as a panda bear name."

Dr. Ellingham stares in disbelief but reluctantly shakes Christopher's hand.

"I apologize for this disruption," Christopher continues. "Michael is a little bit protective of Ling-Ling. We'll just go over to the other side of the surgery and get out of your way."

Christopher grabs Michael by the upper arm and practically drags him from the room, following Stirling through the front hallway into her living room.

"What the hell are you two doing here?" she asks in a stage whisper. "How did you find me?"

"You disappear off the face of the Earth into the wilds of Cornwall and we hear nothing from you for months," says Michael angrily. "We've been worried sick. We had to visit just to make sure you were still alive. It took Leyland hours to find this place, I might add."

"I'm sorry," she says, giving Michael another hug and kiss on the cheek. "Uhmm, where is Leyland?"

"He's with the car," Michael says offhandedly.

"Don't just leave him with the car; invite him in for god's sake!" says Stirling.

"He'll be fine," says Michael. "You need to get changed out of these wet clothes. Chop-chop."

He gives Stirling a push back toward the waiting room and the stairs.

"Put on something nice," adds Christopher. "We're taking you out for dinner. There are restaurants here, aren't there?"

She just gives him a dirty look before going back to the waiting room and upstairs.

She quickly strips off her clothes and jumps in the shower, desperate to warm up. After 15 minutes standing under scalding water, she can feel her fingers and toes again. She quickly dries herself off and spends the next five minutes looking in the wardrobe.

Something nice. With Christopher, that could mean anything. Of course, places to eat were limited in Portwenn. There was the pub and the hotel. Large's was too cold this time of year.

Stirling decides on a pair of plain black tights and a brightly coloured long flared shirt left over from her clubbing days. With a tall pair of calf hugging black riding boots and her hair back in a netted snood, she thinks she's appropriately attired for any kind of evening.

She walks quietly down the stairs, trying not to clomp too loudly in her boots. The waiting room is empty and Morwenna gone for the evening. In the kitchen, the Chief sits at the table chatting with Michael and Christopher. Stirling almost faints.

"There she is," says Michael, standing up as she walks into the room. "Beautiful as always."

He pulls a chair out for her to join them.

"Your friends were just explaining to me how they know you," says Dr. Ellingham, giving her a look. "Michael was telling me about his years at Eton and his long friendship with you. And how you introduced him to Christopher while you were interning."

Stirling isn't sure where this is going.

"And that you performed in a pub band all through medical school. And sang at their wedding. In Canada."

_Uh-oh_.

"Yes, I did," she says, wishing she hadn't taken so long getting dressed.

"It's all very interesting," he says in that sardonic tone that always grates on her nerves. But she remains unemotional.

"Michael is a barrister in his family's firm, Aubrey & Aubrey," she says. "But his heart is really with the work he does on the International Olympic Committee, where he serves as one of the UK's representatives. Michael won a bronze medal in fencing at the 2004 Olympics in Athens."

The Chief stares at her in disbelief.

"Christopher is the head of Paediatrics at St. Thomas' and also does some teaching at Imperial," she adds, daring him to be snooty to them again.

"I think I've read one of your papers on childhood cancer surgical treatments, Dr. Bond," says Dr. Ellingham, turning to Christopher.

The pair of them chat about medicine for a few minutes before Stirling looks at her watch and announces they should get going.

"I'm being treated to dinner," she says to the Chief, standing up from the table.

"Speaking of dinner, I should get home," he says, heading for the backdoor. "Have a good evening."

As the door closes behind him, Michael, Christopher and Stirling all look at one another and try very hard not to burst into laughter.

"Is he always like that?" asks Christopher.

"Are you kidding?" says Stirling. "The Chief was on his best behaviour! He's usually much worse!"

She links arms with Michael and then with Christopher.

"All right, my beauties," she says. "Are you ready to take on Portwenn?"

"Lead on, my liege," says Michael with a grand bow.

"With the common people or the toffs?" Stirling asks.

Without looking at each other or discussing the question, both men answer "common people" at the same time.

"I can eat with toffs whenever I like," says Michael with a sneer. "Let's eat common!"

"We don't even need to drive," Stirling says with a smile.

Luckily, it has stopped raining as she leads the men out the backdoor of the surgery and around the side walkway to the road. As they walk down the hill, she waves to a gentleman sitting in the driver's seat of a beautiful black 1960s era Bentley Continental S3.

"Leyland," she calls. "Come on."

A distinguished grey-haired man in a stunning black three-piece suit, complete with peaked chauffeur cap, climbs out of the car and approaches Stirling. With a click of the heels of his shiny dress shoes, he bows, takes her left hand and kisses it.

"Always a pleasure to see you again, Miss Stirling," he says in a lyrical Irish brogue.

"And you too, Leyland," she says, giving him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "We're going to dinner at the pub. Join us."

He glances at Michael who gives a nod.

"It would be a pleasure, Miss."

The four of them walk down the hill together, the two younger men and Stirling chatting away together, the older man marching regally behind them. When they reach the pub, Leyland moves ahead to open the door for Stirling.

"Miss," he says, holding the door and gesturing with his arm. Stirling pats his cheek and walks into the bustling pub that is, as usual, busy and bursting on a Friday night. Michael and Christopher follow.

As Stirling leads the way past the bar to the back dining room doorway, conversation in the pub seems to quiet. The fishermen openly stare at the three well-dressed gentlemen who follow her. Not your typical Friday night pub visitors in December.

In the back dining area, Stirling snags a table for four located in the far corner. Immediately, Michael, Christopher and Leyland all move as one to pull out her chair. Leyland wins.

"Thank you, Leyland," she says as he pushes her chair in. He moves to assist the other two gentlemen but Michael waves him off. Instead, he digs in his wallet and hands a small wad of cash to Leyland.

"I'll have a single malt Scotch, best they have, neat," Michael says. "Christopher will have a vodka martini, shaken, not stirred. And you know Stirling's standing drink order."

Leyland nods and moves toward the bar.

"Still trapped in your James Bond drinking phase, Christopher?" Stirling asks with a smile. "I see you're still dressing like him, too."

Christopher blushes, making her laugh.

"Leave him alone," says Michael. "At least he can handle his liquor."

Stirling gives Michael a look of shocked dismay.

"It's not my fault I'm allergic to the swill," she says. "Anyway, I have to stay sober. There may be a medical emergency and someone needs to have a clear head."

"He's a doctor," Michael says, pointing at Christopher. "He's drinking."

"He's a paediatrician," Stirling says in an exasperated tone. "Do you see any children in this pub who may be in need of medical assistance? Anyway, if there is, I'll cover for him, like I always do."

This leads to a chorus of loud laughter from all three of them.

"As I recall, Stirling was always exceedingly good at covering for me," says Christopher, taking his drink from Leyland, who has arrived back from the bar. "I remember she once convinced the head of surgery at Imperial that I had just stepped out to the loo when in fact I was at home passed out in bed."

Michael laughs as he sips from his Scotch.

"How long until he figured it out?" he asks Stirling.

She sips her ice water and smiles mischievously.

"He never did figure out Christopher wasn't there. I always managed to make it seem like he'd just left to do something, get some tea, grab some supplies. I saved your goolies that day."

"Indeed you did," agrees Christopher.

"To Stirling, who always knows just the right thing to do to save one's goolies," says Michael, raising his glass.

"To Stirling," the two men shout loudly, each taking a drink.

Most of the people in the dining room turn to stare at them. The two men don't care or notice.

"Where's Leyland?" asks Stirling, looking around, puzzled. She spots him sitting at a high table near the bar, perusing the menu with a pint of dark lager in front of him.

"Don't start Ling-Ling, you'll just embarrass him," says Michael as she stands up from the table.

"I want to have dinner with Leyland as well," she says stubbornly.

She walks over to the chauffeur's table.

"Leyland, why won't you join us?" she asks, putting her arm around the older gentleman's shoulders. "I haven't seen you in ages and I'd like to catch up with you as well."

Leyland smiles and pats her hand.

"Miss Stirling, I've been doing this job too long to change my ways now. You enjoy you're time with Mr. Michael and Mr. Christopher. An old codger like me, I enjoy some quiet time by me-self. We'll catch up later, when those two are sleeping it off."

Stirling laughs and gives him a kiss on the cheek.

"If you need anything, let me know," she says to him. "Stubborn old goat!"

She walks back to her table.

"I told you so," Michael says to her, finishing his Scotch with a flourish. "I do believe the next round is on you Christy. Chop-Chop."

As Michael regales Stirling with stories of Olympic committee meetings and doping scandals, Christopher walks up to the bar to order the drinks. As he's standing there, he notices a uniformed police constable watching him from a table near Leyland's.

"That bobby wasn't there a moment ago," he thinks as he pays for the drinks and walks back to the table.

"Your Scotch, my Lord," he says to Michael, handing him his glass. "And my Lady, I brought you a pitcher of ice water."

Stirling gives a phoney giggle and bats her eyelashes.

"Oh thank you, Mr. Bond," she says in a fake girly-girl voice, jumping up from her chair and dropping into his lap with a flourish. She gives him a big kiss on the lips, much to Michael's great enjoyment.

"Cop a feel, Christy," he says, laughing. "You'll never get the chance again."

Christopher's face is bright red with embarrassment as Stirling laughs and pats his cheek.

"I've missed you Ling-Ling," he says quietly, giving her a tender kiss on the cheek and a big hug. "It's not been the same with you gone. It's been quiet, and peaceful. There's been no one banging on the piano and singing terribly rude songs. It's been bloody boring."

"Damn boring," adds Michael. "No frilly knickers hanging in the bathroom, no humongous dog eating my cigars, no one to fence with in the house, and no one to accompany me on the piano while I sing rude rugby songs."

"Well, you can't sing any of those in here," Stirling says, looking around the room with concern.

That's when she sees Joe. He appears to be looking at his menu but she knows he's been watching them.

_Shit!_

She jumps off Christopher's lap like it's on fire, not thinking about where she places her hands for leverage.

"God, Stirling!" he shouts, holding his groin. "I think you've gone and broke my tackle."

Every person in the room turns to stare.

Stirling is thinking about crawling under the table as Michael starts laughing uproariously. He grabs his glass of Scotch and raises it.

"To Stirling," he says. "She might save your goolies but in the end, she always breaks your tackle."

"To Stirling," Michael shouts, slugging back the rest of his drink.

He looks at her.

"Your round!"


	14. Chapter 13

Joe is about to turn onto Portwenn's high street, imagining a dinner of steak and eggs, when he notices Stirling and a small group of posh-looking gentlemen about to enter The Crab and Lobster.

A distinguished looking elderly man, decked out in a chauffeur's cap, holds the door for her and her well-dressed companions. She pats his cheek as she walks past.

Joe really has no reason to go to The Crab; his shift ended 15 minutes ago and he has all the fixings for a scrummy dinner at home. But he can't resist the pull. He parks the Land Rover at the top of the car park and heads for the pub.

Like most Friday nights, the bar of The Crab and Lobster is packed. With Christmas so close, it seems especially crammed. Joe wonders if the crowd might exceed the legal limit under the fire code.

"It must be close," he thinks.

He walks up to the barkeep to discuss the issue and is assured the landlord is keeping a close eye on the situation.

Joe orders a tall glass of orange juice and walks around the near side of the bar. Leaning against the wall, he watches the elderly man carry drinks and a glass of ice water back to a corner table where Stirling and her two male companions sit. They are attracting quite a bit of attention, which they appear to be oblivious to.

"To Stirling," the two men shout, taking a swallow from their glasses.

Joe notices Stirling looking around the pub while getting up from her table. He backs out of view. The elderly gentleman is seated at a high pub table, and she walks up to him, putting her arm around his shoulders. They talk for a moment and she gives him a kiss on the cheek.

"Stubborn old goat," she says to him affectionately.

Once back at her table, the men finish their drinks and the tall blonde man in pin stripes stands and approaches the bar. He orders a single malt Scotch, a martini (shaken not stirred) plus a pitcher of ice water.

Joe moves over to a high table that has just been vacated by a couple of locals. It's not far from the older gentleman, who is nursing a pint of dark lager while waiting for his meal.

Essie Smythe stops by Joe's table and hands him a menu.

"Just give me a whistle when you're ready to order, Joe," she says with a smile and a wink.

She drops off a plate of steak and eggs at the elderly man's table.

_I could be at home having a dish of that_, Joe thinks. _But instead I'm here spying on the local GP and a couple of toffs._

Blondie returns to the corner table with the drinks and water. Joe watches in amazement as Stirling plunks herself on his pin-striped lap and kisses him on the lips. It's obvious the man isn't expecting it.

"Cop a feel, Christy," the dark-haired man at the table shouts. "You'll never get the chance again."

Everyone in the back dining room is staring at them as Blondie boy kisses Stirling on the cheek and gives her a hug.

Joe picks up his menu and glances through it, not sure why since he knows all the pub's meals from memory.

At that moment, Stirling looks up, glances around the room nervously, and sees Joe.

The muted chatter of the pub is suddenly drowned out by an ear piercing squeal of pain. Joe looks up quickly, as does everyone else in the pub.

"God, Stirling," Blondie yells, doubled over in pain. "I think you've gone and broke my tackle."

Stirling blushes while the dark-haired man laughs.

"To Stirling," he yells, raising his glass. "She might save your goolies but in the end, she always breaks your tackle. To Stirling."

The man gulps down his drink.

Joe hops off his raised chair and walks over to the corner table.

"Is there a problem here?" he asks, his face and voice taking on the serious look and tone of a police constable.

Stirling wants to crawl away and hide somewhere. It's been long enough since the last time she was out with "the boys" that she's forgotten just how out-of-control they can be. Even on their best behaviour, they would probably be too much for Portwenn.

Michael looks up at Joe, who stands beside the table between him and Christopher.

"There's no problem here, constable," he says with a smile. "We're just enjoying a few drinks with our good friend, Stirling. Hopefully, we'll have a bit of dinner later. Unfortunately, my partner Christopher here got his willy in a pinch but I think he's feeling better now. You going to live, Christy?"

Christopher looks up from where he has been resting his head on the table. He has an indent on his forehead from the table edge. The odd bead of sweat trickles down his face.

"I think so," he whispers hoarsely, his hands still cupping his genitals. "But I'll never father children."

"You weren't going to anyway, you daft bugger," Michael says with a loud chuckle.

"Your friends are being rather loud and disruptive," Joe says, looking at Stirling, who is vacillating between embarrassment and outrage. "They are disturbing the other diners and patrons of this establishment. I'm going to suggest you try to quiet it down or you will be asked to leave the premises."

Stirling notices Michael reach into his inner suit jacket pocket, which can only mean one thing - he's going for his business cards. She leaps up from her chair, startling all three men.

"Thank you so much Joe for reminding us of our manners," she says, circling the table and gently taking the police constable by the arm. She begins to pull him slowly away from the table. "We will be on our best behaviour from now on. I'm very sorry if we've disturbed anyone's dinner."

She's managed to coax him about 10 feet away. He looks at her and back at her two friends.

"Just keep it down," he says and walks back to his table.

Stirling heaves an audible sigh of relief.

"What did you do that for?" asks Michael testily, putting his sterling silver business card holder back into his inner pocket. "It was just about to get interesting."

"Look," she says leaning over is chair to look him in the eye. "I have to live in this village, which means I have to get along with the other people who live here. You're one of my best friends in the whole world and I love you to bits but I know exactly how you think and work. You were going to pull out those business cards and start your big shot London lawyer act, which, by the way, wouldn't have worked on this particular police constable. So then, you would have been forced to up the stakes, record his name and officer number, use your mobile to immediately phone his superior officer and report him for verbally insulting an officer of the court or some other made-up complaint. After six months and several hundred formal documents traded back and forth between law firms, you'd finally drop the complaint out of boredom. But you would have put that constable and his department through six months of living lawyer hell and huge expense."

Michael thinks for a moment and nods his head in agreement.

"That sounds about right."

"Well, forget about it! That constable is also a friend of mine. I like him and I don't want him to experience the Aubrey treatment. Just drop it, move on and behave!"

She leaves Michael to consider what she has just said and walks to the bar to order a new round. While she waits for the drinks, Joe walks up to her.

"What are you doing with those two toff clowns?" he asks, gesturing with his head toward the table.

"Those two 'clowns' as you call them happen to be my two best friends," she says angrily. "At one point, they were the only friends I had in the world. I admit, they don't always remember how to behave in public and are barely house trained, but they are two of the most wonderful, caring, loving and loyal people I have ever met. And I'd ask that you didn't judge them until you get to know them. Don't worry, there will be no more disturbances from our table this evening."

Stirling smacks her money down on the bar, picks up her drinks and marches away, leaving Joe feeling a little chastened and sad. He wonders if anyone would ever say something that nice about him. He wonders if Stirling would ever talk as glowingly about him as she has her two friends. Deep in thought, he turns and walks back to his table.

He waves down Essie the next time she rushes by and orders the steak and eggs and another orange juice.

"You want a little something extra in your drink?" she asks him with a laugh.

"Can't; I'm in uniform."

"I won't tell," she says, leaning into his table to display her ample cleavage and bosoms, both clearly visible thanks to her low-cut blouse.

"Just an orange juice, Essie."

She shrugs and rushes away.

"Don't see many police constables who actually follow the rules anymore," says the distinguished elderly man from the next table. "It's refreshing to see there actually may still be some good officers out there."

"Thanks," says Joe, raising the last remains of his orange juice to the man. "Cheers."

They each take a drink.

"I'm sorry if Mr. Michael and Mr. Christopher have been particularly disruptive this evening," the old man adds. "They have been missing Miss Stirling since she left the London townhouse this past summer. I'm afraid they can get a little overexcited."

Joe looks over with interest.

"Stirling used to live with them?" he asks.

"Oh yes," the old man says, getting down from his chair and walking over to Joe's table. He holds out his hand. "I'm Patrick Leyland but people usually call me Leyland."

"Nice to meet you, Patrick," says Joe, shaking his hand. "I'm PC Joseph Penhale. You can call me Joe."

"A pleasure to meet you, Joe. Do you mind if I join you?"

"Not at all."

Soon Leyland is settled at Joe's table with a fresh dish of nuts and a full pint of Guinness.

"I've known Miss Stirling since she was a young girl at boarding school," he says, sipping his beer. "Mr. Michael came home from Eton for school break at Christmas in his third year and announced he had met his future wife. You can imagine how his parents reacted - who, what, where, why, how, how much? The next co-ed sports day Eton held with Wyecombe Abbey, they drove down from the country estate to meet the young woman who had stolen their son's heart."

Leyland laughs at the memory.

"She was a spitfire. She still is. But back then, she was a mere 13 to Mr. Michael's 17. Even so, she was more mature than he was. The first time we saw her, she was competing in a cross country riding race against students from both schools, all ages, genders and grades.

"She kicked their arses," Leyland says with a laugh. "This tall, skinny bit of nothing riding the biggest, blackest horse imaginable comes sailing over the final fence, a huge log with a complicated water element on the far side. They made it look easy. No whip, no spur, she urges that horse across the finish line, more than one minute ahead of the next rider, who gets thrown at the final jump anyway. Mr. Michael came in 14th."

"As you can imagine, his parents weren't sure what to make of this young lady. But she was attending the best and most expensive girls boarding school in the country, which all the finest, most intelligent and well mannered daughters of the most esteemed families in Britain attend. They searched hard but they couldn't find the Aylesworth family of Yorkshire in their Who's Who. You see, Mr. Michael never told them Miss Stirling was there on a scholarship."

"At the next sports day, they watched her win both the girls and boys archery and marksmanship competitions. I think the final straw was when she beat their own son, Mr. Michael, in the fencing competition. 'This just won't do,' they said. 'No well bred, cultured young lady would allow herself to best a gentleman.'"

"Mr. Michael was devastated with their disapproval of the match. But, like most young men ruled by their hearts, he defied them and continued seeing her. Not that it mattered. A few years later, while at Cambridge, he realized that even though he loved Miss Stirling, it would never be as more than a sister. You see, he was more attracted to other young men," whispers Leyland.

Joe nods his head slowly, glancing at the tall, burly, dark-haired man sitting across from Stirling.

_That's a surprise_, he thinks.

"You know, I don't think Miss Stirling cared. She and Mr. Michael just went on being friends like they always had been. She was accepted at Imperial College in medicine and that's where she met Mr. Christopher."

Leyland nods his head toward the blonde in the pin stripes.

"He was a shy boy with a deep love of medicine and Miss Stirling sort of took him under her wing. She introduced him to Mr. Michael and the rest, as they say, is history. She sang and played the piano at their wedding. It was beautiful."

Now Joe is gobsmacked.

_That's what he meant by partner_, he thinks, feeling like an idiot.

"So, they're a couple?" he asks, pointing between the two men.

"They've been together for 12 years now, two of them as a married couple."

Joe stares at Stirling's table for a moment and then turns back to Leyland.

"And where do you fit into all of this, Patrick?"

"Me?" the old man says with a laugh. "I take care of them. I'm what used to be referred to as a gentleman's gentleman - chauffeur, butler, cook and chief bottle washer. Not that Miss Stirling ever required any looking after. When she stayed with us, she took care of herself. Always was an independent soul. Some might say stubborn."

"Indeed they do," Joe mutters.

* * *

Several hours later, after a delicious meal, several bottles of wine, and numerous rounds of drinks, Michael and Christopher are completely rat arsed. Stirling can always tell when they've reached their peak limit of alcohol consumption by how maudlin their stories become.

"Remember that little dog we used to have," Christopher says, leaning way back in his chair. "Black curly hair. He was so cute. What was his name? Pisser? Picker?Pecker?"

"Pepe," volunteers Stirling.

"Pepe!" shouts Christopher, then covers his mouth with his hand.

"Shhhh, we have to keep quiet," he says to Michael, putting his finger up to his lips. "Good old Pepe. He used to piss in Michael's slippers every day. And then the cleaning lady threw him out the front door after he pissed in her shoes. He never did see that Jaguar coming. I think that major fellow, the one next door, his gardener scraped him off the road. Poor little guy."

Christopher leans forward and rests his forehead on the edge of the table.

_That's been one of his favourite positions all evening_, thinks Stirling.

She looks around the pub. The Crab and Lobster has pretty much emptied out for the evening with only the really hard core local drinkers left plus Leyland and Joe, who have been chatting up a storm all evening. She can just imagine what stories the old chauffeur has been telling.

"Well boys, I think it might be time for Bedfordshire" she says, hoping to rouse them from their stupor.

"No!" says Michael loudly.

Christopher shushes him with his finger.

"We want to have one last dance," Michael insists, slamming his fist on the table.

"But you haven't been dancing," explains Stirling patiently.

"Right! That's why we need one last dance. Play us the song, Ling-Ling. Please!"

"Please, Stirling!" Christopher chimes in, suddenly roused from his table edge slumber.

"It's late mates," she says. "We need to go to bed. Big day tomorrow. You have to drive home."

"Please play the song. Please. Please. Please." Michael begs. "We aren't going anywhere until you play the song."

As a statement of his seriousness, he grips the table edge with both his hands and wraps his feet around his chair legs.

Stirling sighs.

She gets up and walks to the bar.

"Ben," she calls to the barkeep. "Do you think it would be okay if I pulled out your piano?"

She refers over her shoulder to the old upright tucked into an alcove near the fireplace.

"Sure Doc," Ben says, drying a glass. "I don't know how in tune it is but give it a go."

"Thanks."

With great interest, Joe watches her shift a couple of dining tables to the side and pull the wheeled upright out into the room. She grabs the piano stool tucked away in the back of the alcove and tries it for height. She has to adjust the seat a couple of times before she has it just right. She does a series of scales, flinching slightly from the odd out of tune note, but decides it's usable.

"Okay you troll-eyed nancy boys," she says. "Here's your damn song. And then we're going home."

As she plays the first few notes, Leyland smiles.

"What?" asks Joe.

"This is their wedding song."

As Stirling plays the very familiar opening bars, Michael and Christopher manage to rouse themselves from the table. They sort of walk-stumble out into the middle of the dining room and begin to slow dance together.

Joe's fairly certain the clientele at The Crab and Lobster have never seen anything quite like it.

"I know just how to whisper and I know just how to cry," sings Stirling, feeling like a complete idiot. "I know just where to find the answers and I know just how to lie. I know just how to fake it and I know just how to scheme. I know just when to face the truth and then I know just when to dream. And I know just where to touch you and I know just what to prove. I know when to pull you closer and I know when to let you loose."

Toward the end of the song, most of the pub patrons are singing along with Stirling, much to her great amusement.

"Making love out of nothing at all," the crowd sings. "Out of nothing at all. Out of nothing at all."

As the last note fades away, Michael and Christopher are so exhausted, they've basically stopped dancing and are just leaning against one another to keep from falling down.

"Okay, boys," she says, stowing the stool back in its spot and pushing the piano back into its alcove. "Bedfordshire."

"It's been a pleasure talking with you, Joe," says Leyland, shaking his hand. "Time to get the boys back to the surgery."

"Do you need a hand?"

Joe soon finds himself helping Stirling half carry, half support Christopher up the hill while Leyland struggles with Michael. At the surgery, they manage to keep the head bangs to a minimum as they push the two men up the stairs and into the spare bedroom. Somehow, they get them both into the bed without one of them falling off the other side.

"Thanks Joe," says Stirling. "Have a good night."

"You too," he says, walking down the stairs and out the front door.

_That was really weird_, he thinks as he walks down the hill, _even for Portwenn_.

* * *

Stirling doesn't see Michael and Christopher again until the next afternoon, leaving her and Leyland lots of time to chat and catch up.

"I saw you chatting away with Joe, the local police constable," she says.

"A wonderful young man," says Leyland, touching Stirling's arm. "And completely smitten with you."

"He is not!" she says, laughing.

"He spent the whole night watching you, making sure you, Mr. Michael and Mr. Christopher didn't get into any trouble. I think that says a lot."

"He was just doing his job," she says. "If you were the local police constable and saw Michael and Christopher walk into a bar, wouldn't you keep an eye on them?"

"It was more than that," the old man says. "You wait and see. I think that man will surprise you one day."

Stirling shakes her head and smiles.

_Good old Leyland, always trying to set me up with some man,_ she thinks.

Once they finally stagger down the stairs, Michael and Christopher are in rough shape.

_Thank goodness the Chief finished the half-day of surgery early_, Stirling thinks as the two men sit at the kitchen table, holding their heads and moaning.

"Can I get you guys anything?" she asks. "Eggs? Bacon? Kippers?"

They both look positively green at the thought of food.

"I'll take care of them," says Leyland, opening the fridge and taking out a motley selection of ingredients. It takes him about 15 minutes but he soon has two hangover cures prepared that make Stirling want to vomit.

Michael and Christopher both swallow it down, shudder and then shudder again.

"Well, it's time to get moving," says Michael about 15 minutes later, standing up from the table.

"As usual, you provided us with an entertaining and interesting evening," he says to Stirling, giving her a big hug and a kiss. "Keep in touch from now on!"

"Take care Stirling and Merry Christmas," says Christopher, also giving her a hug and kiss. "We miss you! Maybe we'll come and visit again in the summer."

"Be sure to give the village enough time to recover from this visit," she says with a laugh.

She walks with them out to the Bentley, which Leyland has warmed up for them. Christopher climbs into the back and Michael is about to follow him but stops.

"I'll be right back," he says, walking down the hill slightly and stepping into the Chief's back garden. Stirling watches in amazement as he knocks on the door, which is opened by the Doc. The pair has a short chat. They shake hands and Michael walks back.

"What was that about?" Stirling asks.

"Oh, I was just thanking him for his hospitality."

Somehow, she doubts that.

Michael climbs into the back of the Bentley next to Christopher and shuts the door.

"We love you, Ling-Ling," they call as the car drives away. "Take care. And keep in touch!"

Stirling watches them until the car is completely out of sight. Even then, she stands there a bit longer, unwilling to return to her regular life.

Eventually, she sighs and heads inside.

She spends a quiet day reading and walking with Bucephalus along the coast trail heading east out of town, a direction they've never travelled before. They pass the police station, where Stirling can see Joe decorating a small Christmas tree out front. She smiles.

Sunday, she and Bucephalus go for another long hike and do the shopping for the next few days. She spends the evening eating at The Crab, enjoying the dining room fireplace while catching up on her medical journal reading. Once in a while she smiles, remembering some silly thing Michael or Christopher said or did. She misses the boys.

Monday surgery begins bright and early at 8:30 a.m. and Stirling is well into her fourth or fifth patient when there is a knock at the consulting room door.

"Excuse me, Mr. Norris," she says, stepping away from the examining couch to answer the door.

Morwenna stands on the other side.

"Yes?"

"There's a special delivery here for you, Doc Stirling," she says.

"Can it wait? I'm with a patient."

"No, you have to sign for it."

"Why can't you?"

"Because it's for you, not me," says Morwenna with a laugh.

"I'll be out in a moment," Stirling says with a sigh.

She quickly finishes her examination of Mr. Norris and writes him a prescription for a steroid cream to help him with his sore knee.

"Try keeping it elevated for a few hours a day," she adds.

After he leaves, she steps out into the waiting room. Morwenna is not at her desk.

"Morwenna?"

"I'm over here, Doc," she calls from next door.

_What on Earth is Morwenna doing in my living room_, Stirling wonders as she walks through the low hallway into the kitchen. She looks into the living room and stops dead.

"Merry Christmas!" Morwenna shouts, moving out of the way.

There, completely overpowering her living room, is a black baby grand piano with a big red bow on top.

"Where did that come from?" she whispers.

"Here," says Morwenna, handing her an envelope.

Stirling opens it and takes out a rude and garish Christmas card involving reindeer and sex toys. Inside is written:

_We saw your living room was empty and knew you didn't have one of these. Even though we're currently not using ours, we're kind of attached to it and all the wonderful memories it stores for us. So we thought you should have a new one to make more memories on. We love and miss you, Ling-Ling, every day. Merry Christmas! _

_Love, Michael & Christopher & Leyland_

She looks at the piano again, tears in her eyes, and laughs. Of course, it's a Steinway.


	15. Chapter 14

Stirling feels like a right clot as she drives down the hill into Portwenn. And from the looks on people's faces as she roars by, everyone else thinks she's one too.

As she passes by the harbour, she is surprised to see a large group of police cars in the car park. Some are from the Devon and Cornwall force and she sees several cars from The Met.

_That's strange_, she thinks, driving up the hill to the surgery. There are two unfamiliar cars in the surgery parking lot and Joe's Land Rover is parked further up the street.

She stands the Triumph on the flagstone area of the front garden near Morwenna's bicycle, unpacks the patient folders from the back saddlebags and unclips her doctor's bag.

_Why's Morwenna still here?_ she wonders.

She unlocks the front door and shoves in with all her luggage plus Bucephalus who, of course, had been smart enough to stay clean. He runs straight upstairs to bed.

"Morwenna!" she calls as she locks the door behind her. "Have you seen all the jam sandwiches down at the harbour? It looks like a bloody picnic. They break up a fish smuggling operation or something?"

Silence. The consultant room door is open and the desk is empty. The Chief's obviously gone home, she thinks.

"Morwenna?"

"I'm in the kitchen," comes a disembodied voice. "Can you come here?"

Stirling places her pile of patient folders on the corner of Morwenna's desk, careful not to get any mud on anything, and sets her doctor's bag on a chair in the waiting room.

"Sorry I'm late," she yells. "I'm going to have to wash the Triumph tonight. I was up on Cartier Road, along the cliff top, and I thought I'd be a right genius and take Tremain Lane across to the Portwenn Road. But I forgot about last night's rain. And Tremain Lane is really more like Tremain Goat Path."

She unbuckles her motorcycle helmet as she walks past the front door into the piano room.

"And don't I get stuck behind this stonking great lorry that's crawling along. It's late January. Why's there a lorry up there? Anyway, I can't get past it because I can't see a bloody thing and the road's too narrow and ..."

She stops dead and goes silent.

There's a crowd of people in her kitchen. And they're all staring at her.

The first person she sees is the Chief, expressionless; Louisa is sitting beside him with both her hands covering her mouth; Morwenna and Al are sitting up on the kitchen counter behind the Ellinghams with their mouth's hanging open; Ruth is standing by the back door, trying very hard not to laugh; and Joe is standing beside her, physically shaking from the effort of not bursting into laughter. Everyone else in the room she doesn't know - a chief inspector from the Devon and Cornwall force sitting at one end, a dapper suit in the chair closest to her, a uniformed Met officer hiding by the hall doorway, and a rumple suited man at the other end of the table.

"Is this an intervention?" she asks.

Joe can't help himself and snorts. Everyone turns to look at him.

"What the hell is going on here?" she asks, getting an edge to her voice.

Louisa speaks first.

"Stirling, have you looked at yourself in a mirror?" she asks.

"I don't have to. I know I'm covered in mud. I'm sure I have two clean round circles around my eyes like a reverse panda bear. That's where my goggles were. As I was saying, this lorry sprayed me with mud."

She looks at the police officers with a puzzled look.

"Is that why you're here? Because I gave a bloody lorry driver the two-finger salute?"

She looks at each of them and stops at rumple suited man.

"You!" she says, suddenly recognizing him. "Detective Chief Inspector Morris McDonald, Scotland Yard."

She looks at the uniformed officer hiding by the hallway.

"You have a new driver."

And then the room is spinning and she thinks she's going to throw up. There's only one reason DCI McDonald would be in her kitchen.

"Spencer," she whispers, her eyes going wide and a feeling of dread and fear filling her stomach. She slaps her hand over her mouth, petrified she's going to vomit.

"What's happened?" she asks, once she's able to speak again without fear of being sick.

DCI McDonald stands up from the table.

"Dr. Aylesworth, I think it would be best if you took some time to clean yourself up and change into some fresh clothes before we have this discussion," he says.

She points a trembling finger at him.

"Don't you patronize me! What's happened?"

"Stirling," says a quiet but commanding voice.

She turns her head in shock. The Chief never calls her Stirling.

"I think you should do as the detective chief inspector says. Get cleaned up and put on fresh clothes. We'll wait for you."

She stands there for a few moments, trembling slightly.

"Yes, Chief," she says, turning and heading for the stairs.

In her bedroom, she quickly strips off her filthy clothes, throwing them into a hamper. She scrubs her face at the bathroom sink, removing thick layers of mud. No wonder they stared. She pulls on a black pair of jodhpurs, a dark green fitted shirt and a matching tweed jacket. She brushes her hair out and re-plaits it. She slips on a pair of paddock boots.

Within 10 minutes, she's back in the kitchen. Morwenna has made tea and coffee for everyone. The group has redistributed themselves around the table and an empty chair waits for her at the far end, along with a bottle of water and a glass of ice. Stirling has a quick glance at Morwenna, who gives her a wink.

"Have a seat, Stirling," says Dr. Ellingham.

_Twice in 15 minutes_, she thinks. _Whatever has happened must be really, really bad._

She sits in the empty chair, pours the bottle's contents into the glass and takes a gulp.

DCI McDonald clears his throat awkwardly.

"There's been an incident," he says, looking at Stirling. "At Broadmoor. Spencer Graham has escaped."

It's bad. She thinks she's going to be ill.

"How?" she whispers.

"He strangled an attendant; stole her keys; hid in a service lorry; hijacked a car about 30 kilometres from the hospital. Last time he was spotted, he was driving toward London."

She puts her head in her hands.

_Shit!_

She looks up sharply.

"What about Michael and Christopher?"

"Mr. Aubrey and Dr. Bond are safe. I have officers watching their home, offices and St. Thomas Hospital 24-hours per day."

"When did this happen?"

"Last night," says DCI McDonald.

"And you're just getting around to telling me now?" she asks incredulously.

"We thought he would be found and captured within hours. We didn't want to cause undue concern. We weren't expecting him to be so well prepared."

Stirling snorts in disgust.

"Why would you expect a bloody genius to be well prepared?" she says sarcastically. "Just because he's in a mental hospital doesn't mean he's suddenly stupid. You've always underestimated him."

She sighs and stares at the sweat trickling down the outside of her glass.

"How long do you think before he finds out where I am?" she asks, tracing a drop of water down the side with a trembling finger.

There's silence.

She looks up at DCI McDonald, who looks rather uncomfortable.

"He may already have that information," he says.

"WHAT!"

"He had access to his records."

"WHAT!"

"He broke into my office and stole all of the documentation related to his case," says Ruth from behind her.

Stirling spins around in her chair, her eyes wide with horror.

"YOU were his doctor?"

"I was involved in his assessment and treatment program. He had several doctors."

"So why was all of his documentation kept in your office?" Stirling asks, frustrated.

"I was assessing his progress to see if he qualified for additional privileges."

"Great! Spencer was going to join the archery club," Stirling mutters.

"Actually, it was the chess club," says Ruth.

Stirling gives her a dirty look.

"And you kept details of my location in his records?"

"Discussion about you was a key aspect of his treatment program," explains Ruth. "We needed to be able to contact you if need be."

"To help with his treatment program? He tried to kill me! He killed three of my coworkers! Why did you never tell me you were involved with Spencer?"

"You know the answer to that, Stirling," she says calmly. "I'm not allowed to divulge information about my patients. Doctor-patient privilege. You work under the same restrictions."

Stirling turns back to DCI McDonald.

"So what do I need to do?"

"You don't need to do anything, Dr. Aylesworth," he says. "Just continue going about your normal routine. Chief Inspector Manning with Devon and Cornwall and I are putting together a protection detail, 24-hours per day. He won't be able to get anywhere near you or the Dr. Ellinghams and their families. Ms. Newcross and Mr. Large will also be protected."

She looks at him in disbelief.

"You really think I'm going to trust you with my safety?"

"Stirling ..." says Dr. Ellingham.

"No," she says, turning to him. "You weren't there, Chief. You didn't experience the witch-hunt. What was it you told me DCI McDonald as I lay half dead in a hospital bed? Oh yes! 'You had more to gain from Dr. Nelson's death. And you had the means.' Those were your exact words, Inspector. So excuse me if I don't trust you all that much."

"We had to follow all avenues of the investigation, Dr. Aylesworth. At that point, you were a suspect."

"I know. And it gave me so much incentive to live. Was Tonya Austin a suspect too? Did you question her for hours as she lay dying, her body slowly killing itself?"

"That's enough, Stirling," says Dr. Ellingham.

"And, no offence, but I don't know you Chief Inspector Manning," Stirling continues, turning to the officer beside her. She looks at the fancy-suited man seated beside the chief inspector. "And I have no idea at all who you might be."

"Dr. Ernest Swinton, head psychiatrist at Broadmoor," he says, offering his hand.

"Oh great," she says, sarcastically. "Are you here to assess me for the chess club? Or perhaps suggest a sedative?"

She stands up from the table. "If you'll please excuse me, I'm going upstairs to sharpen my fencing foil."

As she turns to go, she notices Joe again, now leaning up against the back wall of the kitchen, his usual position when observing Stirling.

"You can't just refuse our protection," says DCI McDonald, also standing. "You will be left vulnerable."

She stands for a minute, looking at Joe.

"Then give me him," she says, referring to the constable, who actually looks over his shoulder to see if there's someone between him and the wall.

Stirling almost laughs.

"Now you're just being ridiculous," says Dr. Ellingham scornfully. "Penhale?"

"Why not?" she says, turning to look at the Chief. "He knows the area, he knows the people, the community, who belongs, who doesn't, the vehicles, the routine of the village. He's not going to stand out like the rest of these coppers. And I have more faith in him than this lot," she adds, referring to DCI McDonald and the other police officers in the room.

"PC Penhale was included in this meeting as a courtesy only," says CI Manning. "He is not part of the offered security detail. He has territorial policing duties."

"That can't be covered by another police constable?" asks Stirling scornfully. "Or added onto Wadebridge station's responsibilities for the short term? They're not paying you enough, Joe. It seems you and you alone are the key to the safety of Portwenn's citizens."

CI Manning is red faced with anger.

"You must be joking," says Dr. Ellingham, standing up from his chair. "This idiot once shot himself in the foot with his own rifle. He stapled his own hand to a wooden pole. And you think he can keep you safe from a madman?"

Louisa puts her hand on Dr. Ellingham's arm, urging him to sit down and be calm.

"And I was once idiot enough to live with a psychopath who murdered three coworkers and almost finished me off too," says Stirling. "Are you going to judge me by that one act my whole life?"

Joe watches the exchange in wide-eyed disbelief. Stirling is defending him to the Doc? She wants him to be her security detail? She has more faith in him than Scotland Yard?

_Crikey_, he thinks.

"You're not interested in our services, Dr. Aylesworth?" asks DCI McDonald.

"No. I want PC Penhale," she says stubbornly.

The DCI looks at CI Manning.

"It's better than leaving her with no security detail," he says.

"No it isn't," mutters Dr. Ellingham. Louisa shushes him.

CI Manning sighs.

"I'm sure Wadebridge can include Portwenn in its patrol rounds for a few weeks," he says.

"We'll also be installing motion detecting cameras at both the front and back doors of the surgery," says DCI McDonald. "They operate 24 hours a day and will broadcast to a monitor on site plus record to an off site device. Always check the monitor before opening the door."

Stirling nods.

"The rest of you, we'll be setting up your security details immediately," says the DCI, moving toward the back door. His driver follows.

"Good luck, PC Penhale," DCI McDonald says, stopping to shake Joe's hand. He glances at Stirling. "You're going to need it."

The rest of the group also begins to file out the back door.

"My apologies, Stirling," says Ruth.

"If you need anything, just call," says Louisa with concern.

"I'll see you Monday, Doc Stirling," says Morwenna.

"Goodnight Doc, Joe," says Al.

Dr. Ellingham just grunts.

Soon, it's just Stirling and Joe in the kitchen.

"Well, I better collect my kit and get set up," says Joe, heading for the back door. "Lock the door behind me and don't open it for anyone until I get back."

Stirling nods her head and clicks the door lock behind him.

She turns, leans back against the door and begins to cry.


	16. Chapter 15

Joe lies in the strange but comfortable bed and stares at the ceiling. It truly has been one of the most bizarre days, well, at least the last five hours of it.

It hadn't taken him long to gather some clothes, his rifle and a few other supplies and settle into the guest bedroom of the surgery. He had wanted to sleep on a cot in the piano room but Stirling had insisted.

"You'll be in front of him when he tries to get up the stairs," she'd said. "Then you can blow his head off."

_Great!_

Joe isn't too sure how this Spencer Graham fellow fits into Stirling's life but what he read in the police bulletin waiting for him at the station was chilling. Mentally unstable, most likely armed, very dangerous, genius level IQ, responsible for the deaths of four people and the attempted murder of one, known arsonist. Could it get any worse? The photos showed a handsome, physically fit man with light brown hair, blues eyes, about six feet tall. Under distinguishing features it was noted he has burn scars on his hands, the result of setting his own apartment on fire in order to escape arrest.

_Charming man._

That evening, Stirling insisted on washing the Triumph and he helped her scrub and hose off the mud while Bucephalus just got in the way. It had actually been a lot of fun, although they both ended up soaked.

At the same time, the police techs installed the door cameras and monitor. A thick file folder containing copies of Spencer Graham's police records and psychiatric files was left for him on the kitchen table.

"That should make fun reading," Stirling remarked when she saw it.

What she didn't notice was the thinner file underneath Graham's that contained the information Scotland Yard had gathered about her.

Dinner was simple - soup and sandwiches.

_She isn't the domestic type_, he noted, although she immediately tidied everything up after the meal - dishes in dishwasher (turned on), all supplies put away, counters wiped, table wiped, dirty linen in the laundry room.

They had walked the dog, climbing the hill so he could romp on the grassy Common along the cliffs. She sat on a park bench staring out at the sea for 45 minutes, saying nothing. He stood with her at his back, his rifle in his hands, watching for anything or anyone coming toward them.

Back at the surgery, he sat at the kitchen table to read Graham's file. Stirling played the piano. Joe didn't manage to get much reading done. Instead, he listened to the beautiful, haunting music she coaxed that instrument to make. For more than an hour she played, no sheet music, eyes closed. Bucephalus lay on the kitchen floor near his chair, appearing to listen as well.

She went to bed at 9:30, an early night by Joe's standards. He made the rounds of the house, inside and out, ensuring all doors and windows were locked and secure. Upstairs, her bedroom door was closed although light still showed underneath. He set his rifle, loaded, on the floor beside his bed and stripped down to a T-shirt and boxers.

And now he is staring at the ceiling.

He sighs and sits up, clicking on a bedside lamp. He looks at the files stacked on the nightstand. He reaches for Stirling's first.

It's thin for a reason - she's really done nothing wrong, ever. A speeding ticket from 10 years ago, a verbal warning regarding a rowdy party dated five years ago.

_Quite the crime spree_, he thinks.

Her background information makes fascinating reading though. Stirling Mason Aylesworth III, second daughter and second child of Stirling Mason Aylesworth II - veterinarian; and Dorothy Alice Payton - nurse. Her birthday shows she's currently 33 and will be turning 34 in August. Joe vaguely remembers being 33. He was still married when he was 33.

The information about Stirling's older sister, Emily Dorothy Aylesworth, and her family is familiar to Joe, recalling Stirling had also told him about her brother-in-law, Robert Frank Muncie, a sergeant with the Yorkshire police force, plus her niece and nephew, Roberta and Richard.

The story of Stirling's parents' deaths in a road traffic accident in 1990 is also familiar but there are more details about how it happened - a livestock lorry speeding through a stop sign. The girls' inherited the estate, consisting of a bit of savings, a modest amount of life insurance and the family farm. The Muncie family moved to the farm and took guardianship of Stirling.

According to her education records, Stirling is extremely intelligent and possesses a genius level IQ. In primary school, she displayed as a well-adjusted child until the death of her parents and her best friend (Bertie Mayer - viral meningitis), both in the same year. The school psychologist noted she developed a deep and obsessive fascination with infectious diseases and medical research. At the age of 12, she won a UK-wide science fair contest with a project outlining research she conducted into meningitis treatment and vaccination. Several schools showed interest in her as a scholarship student. She earned a double scholarship (academics and music) to Wycombe Abbey School, an all-girl boarding school in Buckinghamshire.

Her school records from Wycombe are even more fascinating. They retest her IQ, which still displays at genius levels but with the added label of an eidetic memory.

Joe uses his mobile to look up the word. Photographic memory.

_Bloody hell_, he thinks.

She excelled in all subjects, except domestic arts and deportment, and showed advanced talent in horsemanship, fencing, archery and marksmanship. She is also adept at several martial arts. Musically, she is a virtuoso (Joe looks that word up as well) on piano, singing, and the violin. She memorizes music through sight reading and listening. She only needs to play or listen to a musical piece once to memorize it.

But not all is glowing from Wycombe. According to her records, Stirling could be "belligerent and defy authority," was not always a team player, broke curfew regularly, was bullied by older students resulting in her breaking another girl's nose in a fist fight (interesting - no assault charge), and was suspected in several elaborate school pranks.

Joe chuckles. He could see her planning pranks; they probably involved timers and remote detonators.

At 18, she is accepted at Imperial College, full scholarship, and completes a six-year MBBS/BSc in Medicine, top of her class. After graduation, she earns a double Masters in Infection and Immunology, once again top student. She is wooed by Guy's and St. Thomas Trust where she practices medicine while training towards a speciality in Infectious Disease.

Joe hears something. He closes the file and grabs the rifle from beside the bed. He slowly stands up and tiptoes over to the open door. He glances out in the hall. Nothing.

He hears the noise again. It's coming from Stirling's room.

Should he knock or just walk in?

Joe tries the door. It's locked.

He knocks.

"Stirling? Are you okay? I thought I heard something."

Silence.

"You're going to have to communicate with me or I'll be forced to break the door down," he says.

"I'm fine," comes a muffled voice.

"You don't sound fine."

He hears a sigh and the sound of blankets being shifted. He can hear the soft footfalls of bare feet on the floor.

"I can't sleep," she says much clearer. She's obviously standing just on the other side of the door.

"I keep thinking about Spencer and how stupid I was," she says, sniffling. "How arrogant and cocky I was. A complete prat."

Joe smiles.

"You've never struck me as prat material," he says.

Stirling laughs ruefully.

"I was the queen of the prats and Spencer was the king. The stupid thing is, I couldn't see it then. Not until later."

Joe slides down the door until he's sitting on the floor, his rifle resting across his knees.

"Why don't you tell me about it," he says.

"It's a long story," she says.

"Well, you can't sleep. I can't sleep. What else do we have to do?"

There's silence for a moment.

"All right. But you asked for it. Be prepared to be appalled and disgusted by some shocking prat-like behaviour."

"I think I can handle it," he says with a smile.

"I was the golden child of Infectious Disease, if you can believe it," says Stirling, sliding down her side of the door and leaning her head back against it. "I was courted by all the medical departments - oncology, paediatrics, obstetrics, gyno, surgery - they all wanted me. And I picked Infectious Disease, that wonderful place where we were able to play with Ebola virus, bird flu, SARS, all those fun killers. I actually thought I was hot stuff - the next Jonas Salk."

Joe quickly looks up the name using his mobile. Polio.

"It doesn't help that they groom you to be that way, just like them."

"My Chief was the ruling god of Infectious Disease, Dr. Albert Nelson. He made Dr. Ellington look cordial."

Joe smiles.

"And I was his chosen one, his favourite, his Number One. He would praise me up, knock me down, and then praise me up again. It's an effective form of brainwashing. Terrorists use it all the time. I worshipped the ground my Chief walked on. He could do no wrong."

"When you're the chosen one, lots of interns want to see you fail. And lots of interns want to be your best chum. Maybe you can put a good word in with the Chief and get them a better placement, a key to the workout room, a parking space closer to the door or some other special privilege. You have to watch your back. And I didn't."

"One of the other promising doctors in my department was Dr. Spencer Graham. Educated in Edinburgh, top of his graduating class. He was the Chief's Number Two. And because of that, we ended up doing a lot of shifts together, collaborating on the same research projects, caring for the same patients. One thing led to another and we became a couple."

Joe feels a stab of jealousy.

_Why would he be jealous of a man Stirling loathes?_ he wonders. _Maybe because she loved him once._

"He was very charming, a perfect gentleman, dapper, and smarmy; all the women loved him. And thus hated me."

"Christopher warned me: 'Never get involved with a fellow doctor, especially one in your own department.' But I didn't listen. I was the golden child, the chosen one. What did Chris know? He was in paeds."

"It started out small, it always does. Little things began to go bad. My research data would be slightly off, my patient notes would go missing. Silly things."

"Meanwhile, Spencer and I moved in together, bought a beautiful apartment, expensive furnishings, held the best parties with all the A-list hospital staff in attendance - the best doctors, the best nurses, the best consultants. We became the golden couple."

Joe feels that stab of jealousy again, deeper.

"On our one-year anniversary, he bought me a ring, a monster, the most ostentatious diamond I'd ever seen. He wanted to get married, have a family, whole house and picket fence dream. And I turned him down. I was 30-years-old. I didn't want to be tied down to a husband and a child. I wanted a career. Let's just say he didn't take it well. Our relationship became strained."

Joe leans back against his section of door, stretching his cramping legs out in front of him.

"Life at work was no better. My research wasn't working out at all now, my results made no sense, and patient notes were changed completely. My Chief told me I was slipping. The golden child was looking a bit tarnished."

"Spencer started staying out late, flirting with other women, picking up other women, sleeping with other women, blaming me. I should have moved out but I didn't. I moved into the guest bedroom instead, thinking to myself: _'I own half this apartment and I'm not going to let him kick me out of my own home.'_"

"Then Bucephalus became sick. I came home after a shift and he was lying half dead on the kitchen floor. Somehow, I managed to get him to an emergency vet who told me he'd been poisoned. He wasn't sure if the dog was going to make it. I didn't go home that night; I slept at the hospital instead."

"Spencer was waiting for me the next morning. Started yelling about how I was cheating on him, spying on him, undermining his research. You name it, I was doing it. The more I denied, the more aggressive he became. He scared me. I stayed with Christopher and Michael for a few days, hoping things would calm down."

Joe feels angry.

"Around that time, we received a patient with a strange respiratory illness; very aggressive and the symptoms were resistant to treatment. At first, we thought it was SARS. Then we started hearing about a virulent respiratory disease spreading in the Middle East, where our patient had just returned from."

"Dr. Nelson hand-picked a team that would be responsible for patient care and finding a viable treatment. I made the team; Spencer didn't."

"Two days later, the Chief, myself, one of the most experienced nurses in the department and a promising young med student entered the isolation room to care for the patient. We followed all of the protocols - Hazmat suits, self-contained air supply, the whole deal. We were all properly attired and doing our jobs when I noticed a seam dissolve in the nurse's suit. Turns out all of suits had been compromised and we had been exposed to the infection."

Joe gasps.

"We had to stay in the isolation room with the patient, quarantined."

"Roxanne, the nurse, became ill first; and then the Chief; the med student, Tonya; and me. Within a week, our patient was dead. Roxanne followed five days later; the Chief, two days after that. Tonya and I rallied. We were younger, stronger, had better immune systems. She died two weeks later of sepsis. Somehow, I lived."

"The hospital holds a big investigation. And Scotland Yard becomes involved. It turns out my boyfriend went - what do they call it here? - Bodmin. They go to our apartment to arrest him and he sets it on fire. I lost everything. Bucephalus survived but only because he was still at the vet's recovering. Turns out Spencer was responsible for the poisoning as well."

"I spent two months in the hospital and another two months in a rehabilitation facility. I gave my testimony from a hospital bed using supplemental oxygen because I was unable to talk for long periods of time. They find him guilty but insane and he's sent to Broadmoor, where he's been playing chess with Ruth ever since."

"And I didn't even know."

Stirling wipes the tears from her eyes.

"I went from golden child to pariah. No consultant position for me, certainly not in Infectious Disease. My own doctor told me to give up medicine, that I would never be able to work in a hospital or a city again. Too many people, too high a risk of infection, which would be dangerous given my lung damage. 'Live by the sea,' he said. 'The air will do you good.'"

"But I didn't want to give up medicine. I became a GP and went in search of a practice. Easier said than done. My reputation, or should I say, Spencer's reputation, proceeded me. I was labelled the vamp that caused it all. No one would take a chance on me. Except Dr. Ellingham. And look what that's earned him - a 24-hour security detail outside his home."

"I don't think we need to worry about the Doc," says Joe. "I think your safety is more of a concern."

Stirling is quiet for a few minutes.

"You know, the whole time I was in hospital, kept in an isolation room, under quarantine, people dying around me, I was never scared," she says. "Maybe I was too out of it; maybe I was in shock; maybe I was too stupid."

"But you know what I was afraid of? Seeing him again, seeing Spencer. And I still am."

"Well, I'm going to make sure that doesn't happen," says Joe. "You should try to get some sleep."

Stirling gets up from the floor and leans her forehead against the door.

"Thanks Joe," she says.

"For what?"

"For listening."

She stands there a few moments longer, her hand on the door lock. Then she turns and walks to her bed, crawling back under the covers.

"Goodnight," she calls.

"Goodnight," he answers back, sitting on the floor, leaning against the door, the rifle across his lap, listening to the wind whistle in the eaves.


	17. Chapter 16

At first, being the subject of a 24-hour security detail is awkward for Stirling.

Saturday's half-day of patient appointments begins to take on the feel of a French farce as Joe continually bursts into the consulting room, provoked by the slightest noise.

The first time it happens, she is lancing a rather nasty boil on Elliot Cooper's bum.

"This might sting a bit," she warns.

As soon as he feels the scalpel, Mr. Cooper shouts out in pain.

Almost immediately, Joe is through the door.

"What the hell are you doing?" she demands as Mr. Cooper scrambles to cover his bare arse. "I'm treating a patient in here."

"I heard a shout," says Joe, flustered as he tries to avoid looking at Mr. Cooper's bum, particularly the large oozing sore on it. "I thought you might be in trouble."

Stirling takes a deep breath.

"You knew I was in here with Mr. Cooper," she says patiently. "What kind of trouble did you think I might be having with an 83-year-old man?"

Joe is quiet for a moment.

"Someone could have broke through one of the back windows," he says, pointing to the pair facing the back garden.

She sighs.

"Everything is fine. Please let me get on with the procedure."

"Sorry Elliot," Joe says as he shuts the door.

The next time, she is examining a clogged milk duct on one of Cleona Anderson's breasts, which has resulted in a case of mastitis.

"I need to examine your breasts," Stirling explains, slipping on a pair of gloves.

Cleona undoes her blouse and unhooks the front of her nursing bra, allowing Stirling access to her red and inflamed mammary glands. As she palpates one of the firm, red areas, the new mother gasps in pain.

"Please don't do that," she says in a loud voice.

Once again, Joe rushes through the door. He takes one look at the situation, pirouettes on one foot, and runs right back out again, slamming the door behind him.

"I'm very sorry about that," says Stirling, wondering what the official rules are on installing locks on consulting room doors.

During a break between patients, she escorts Joe into the kitchen.

"This is very important," she says. "When I am with a patient, you cannot come barging into the room."

"But I'm supposed to be protecting you," he says. "I don't know what's going on behind that door. You might be in trouble. Someone might have jimmied one of the windows or be hiding in the cupboard waiting to pounce on you. I hear a noise, I'm coming in."

"Well, so far this morning, all you've managed to accomplish is get an eyeful of Mr. Cooper's boil covered arse and ogle an embarrassed young mother's mastitis inflamed breasts!"

"I wasn't ogling!" Joe says indignantly. "As soon as I saw everything was under control, I got the hell out of there."

Stirling takes a deep, calming breath.

"We need to reach a compromise on this before things get out of hand," she says. "How about you check the consulting room at the beginning of the morning and afternoon appointments and again between each patient."

Joe nods his head thoughtfully.

"I can work with that," he says. "I also think we should come up with a code word."

"A code word?"

"Yeah, a code word. If you need help, you yell out the word and I'll come running."

"What kind of word?" Stirling asks.

"It has to be something you wouldn't say in normal, everyday conversation," says Joe, thinking. "Sassafras."

"Sassafras?"

"I've always liked that word," he admits with an embarrassed half-smile. "It sounds ... exotic."

"Sassafras?"

"Yeah."

"Okay ..."

Stirling's not sure if she or Joe will survive to lunch. But somehow they both do.

As she escorts her final patient out the door, the smell of something scrummy wafts her way. She locks the front door and walks through the piano room to the kitchen, where Joe stands in front of the cooker, stirring. He's wearing an apron over his police uniform.

"What are you doing?" she asks, curious.

"I'm cooking," he says, glancing over his shoulder at her.

"Well, that's fairly obvious," she says sarcastically. "I just wondered why."

"It's lunch time," he says, sampling whatever it is he's stirring in the pot. He adds a few shakes of salt. "At lunch time, most people eat lunch."

He stirs his creation a bit more and tastes it again.

"Can you grab a couple of plates from the cupboard?" he asks, removing the pot from the cooker top.

Stirling goes to the cupboard and removes two plates, a couple of glasses and some cutlery. After setting two places at the kitchen table, she sets the plates on the counter near Joe. Using the stirring spoon, he carefully distributes the pot's contents between the two dishes.

"Go sit down," he says to Stirling, grabbing the plates and carrying them over to the table. He sets one in front of her and places the other where he plans to sit.

"What would you like to drink?" he asks, untying the apron and walking over to the fridge.

"I can get my own beverage," says Stirling, feeling a bit embarrassed.

"I'm getting something for myself," he says, hanging the apron on a hook beside the pantry door. "It's no bother."

"A can of CocaCola, please," she requests quietly.

Joe grabs her a can and also brings a carton of milk to the table.

"You shouldn't drink that stuff," he says, setting the can down by her glass. "It's not good for you. It will burn a hole right through your stomach. Happened to a bloke in the same group as me at police training."

Stirling gives Joe a dirty look as she opens the can with a loud click.

"Thanks, Chief, I'll keep that in mind."

"Well, the Doc does give good advice," he says, pouring himself a glass of milk.

"Too much of anything isn't good for you," says Stirling, feeling compelled to defend her beverage choice. "I try to keep my cola consumption in moderation, only one or two cans per week. I don't drink coffee or tea or alcohol. And most of the time, I have ice water."

"How's your stew?"

She looks down at her plate, realizing she been so busy talking, she hasn't even tried her lunch. She takes a small spoonful and tastes it.

"It's really good," she says, somewhat surprised.

Joe smiles proudly.

"My mum taught me that recipe," he says. "Do you want a slice of bread with it?"

"No, no, I'm fine," Stirling says, eating another large spoonful.

In no time at, she's cleaned her plate.

Joe looks over at her empty dish with raised eyebrows.

"You must have been a mite bit peckish," he says.

Stirling looks up at him in wonderment.

"You know, I can honestly say this is the first home-cooked meal I've had in several years, not counting Sunday dinners at the Chief's. It was delicious. Thank you."

"You're welcome," he says, looking down at his plate and blushing.

After Joe finishes his lunch, Stirling gathers up the dirty dishes, glasses and utensils and stacks them in the dishwasher.

She turns around and hops up to sit on the kitchen counter.

"I never felt I missed out on anything growing up without my mum and dad," she says. "But it would appear I did."

"What do you mean?" asks Joe.

"Emily and Rob, they did the best they could. They were young, they had a new baby and suddenly they were responsible for a precocious 10-year-old as well. Maybe if my mum and dad hadn't died when they did, things would have worked out differently. Maybe I would have learned some of the important life lessons that just ended up being skipped over - like how to cook."

"No one ever showed you?"

Stirling shakes her head.

"Emily was always so busy with the kids and the farm. And I never showed an interest in learning. I guess she thought it was just easier and quicker to do it herself. Less hassle that way."

Joe sits quietly for a moment.

"I'm no master chef but I could show you how to whip together a few simple meals," he says.

"Really?"

"Sure."

They start that evening - spaghetti with homemade tomato and meat sauce. Sitting at the kitchen table, Joe explains what ingredients they will require and Stirling puts together a list. Of course, her cupboards contain none of what is needed.

They walk down to the grocery store, Joe keeping a sharp eye out for anything suspicious. While he holds the hand basket, Stirling works through the list, searching out the required items and adding them. At the fresh vegetable display, Joe explains what she should look for in a quality tomato, a ripe pepper, a good onion. Working from his prompts, she picks out the best available and adds them to her growing pile of purchases.

At the checkout, Mrs. Appleyard smiles at the pair.

"Eating in tonight, Doc Stirling?" she asks, a gleam in her eye.

"PC Penhale is giving me a cooking lesson," Stirling says proudly, taking her items one-by-one out of the basket and placing them on the counter.

"Is that what they're calling it now," says Mrs. Appleyard with a knowing smirk as she rings in the items.

Stirling gives her a strange look as she hands the clerk what she owes. She reaches for a bag but Joe grabs it before her.

"I'll carry it," he says, cradling a paper sack in each arm.

Stirling shrugs and heads out the door, holding it for Joe to walk through. Mrs. Appleyard watches them out the window as they walk back toward the surgery.

"Such a cute couple," she says to Ruth, who has just walked through the door with her own security shadow.

Ruth turns and watches the pair walking away.

"Hmmmm," she says.

Back at the surgery, Joe gets to work boiling water for crushing the tomatoes and making the base sauce. He has Stirling cutting up the peppers, onions, and mushrooms; mincing the garlic, plus assembling the necessary spices. He adds the tomatoes a couple at a time to the boiling water, leaving them in for about one minute. After spooning them out, he dunks them immediately into cold water.

"As soon as the skins crack, you can start peeling them off," he explains, grabbing a cracked tomato and showing Stirling how to remove the skin with just her fingers.

"Then you cut the tomato into quarters and remove the hard core part," he says, showing her with a small knife. "Once the hard stuff's removed, you squeeze the tomato sections over a bowl to get the water out and scoop out the seeds. When each section is cleaned, put it in this bowl over here."

Pretty soon, they have their own little assembly line going with Joe dunking tomatoes and Stirling peeling and cleaning them. Once all the tomatoes are prepared, Joe puts a skillet on the cooker with olive oil in the bottom.

"We put all the cleaned tomatoes in here," he says, tipping the bowl Stirling filled into the skillet. "We turn the heat up, bring it to a boil and then turn the heat down and let the tomatoes simmer for about 45 minutes."

"What about browning the meat and cooking the pasta?" Stirling asks.

"Don't worry, we have lots of time to prepare that part. The base sauce is what's going to take the longest, so you start with that."

They stand side by side and watch the sauce, Joe stirring it occasionally. At the 30-minute mark, he has Stirling add the minced garlic and the vegetables she has prepared, stirring them into the thickening sauce.

"Now we can start boiling the water for the pasta and heat a pan for browning the meat," he says.

After another 15 minutes of cooking, the meal is ready. Joe forks a small mountain of pasta onto each plate while Stirling spoons a healthy serving of sauce on top.

"Looks good, eh," he says, setting a plate in front of Stirling and sitting down with his own helping.

He takes a bite.

"Mmmmm - awesome job, Stirling!"

She laughs.

"You did most of the cooking! I just sliced, diced, squeezed and cleaned."

"That's all the work," Joe says, twirling spaghetti onto his fork. "Think you could make it again?"

She thinks for a moment, going back over all the steps in her mind, placing them in proper sequence.

"No problem," she says.

"One meal now added to your repertoire."

After supper, they take Bucephalus for a long walk along the cliff top trail. Joe carries his rifle slung over his shoulder, his eyes constantly moving, looking for any threats. About a mile from Portwenn, Bucephalus starts barking and digging at the grass along the edge of a shallow gully.

"Come," orders Stirling, shocked when the dog ignores her.

"Buce," she calls sharply. "Come."

The dog pauses and looks at her, whining. He goes back to digging and barking.

"Stay here," Joe says to Stirling, moving toward Bucephalus, readjusting his rifle as he walks.

"What have you found, boy?" he asks the large dog, bending down to see what the animal is fussing with. A mud-stained white T-shirt lies on the ground, very near the start of a small steep path leading down into the gully. He pokes at it with a stick, looking for any distinguishing marks but finds nothing. It's just a plain white T-shirt that has seen better days.

_Some hiker probably lost it_, Joe thinks, standing up and looking around the area.

The gully is deep and well covered with small trees, shrubs and long grass. As he recalls, there's a small sheltered beach at the bottom that almost disappears at high tide. There is no one in sight ahead of them, behind them or inland.

"Come, Buce," he says, encouraging the dog to follow him. The big Great Dane romps beside Joe back to Stirling.

"What was it?" she asks, hugging her coat tighter around her as a gust of wind blows in from the sea.

"It was nothing," says Joe. "Some hiker or surfer lost his shirt and Bucephalus took a shine to it."

He looks at her hugging herself.

"Are you cold?"

"A little," she says, her teeth chattering.

"We better go back."

Turning back toward Portwenn, Bucephalus runs ahead of the pair in search of rabbits to chase. Joe takes one last look over his shoulder, feeling slightly uneasy.


	18. Chapter 17

Days pass by with Joe never very far from Stirling. He monitors the surgery when she's in the office, shadows her when she does house calls, sleeps in the guest bedroom every night. Where she goes, he goes.

The cooking lessons continue. Stirling soon finds herself adept at making Shepherd's pie, a simple lasagna, bangers and mash, roast beef with mashed potatoes, omelets, eggy fried bread, soft boiled eggs with toasted soldiers; homemade stew, and fish and chips.

Stirling has never eaten so well in a long time.

"I'm going to have to take up some kind of exercise program," she says one Thursday night as they work together cleaning up the kitchen.

"No you don't," Joe says, tickling her in the ribs. "You're just finally getting a bit of meat on your bones."

Stirling feels a thrill of excitement in her stomach at his touch. He smiles as he looks at her and his eyes suddenly turn serious. They stare at one another. Stirling wants to reach out and touch his cheek. Maybe she should kiss him, she thinks wildly, but he turns away and the moment passes.

The next morning, Stirling prepares for a chilly February Friday of house calls. The weather is dry but overcast and she puts several layers of clothing on before shrugging into her long winter coat. Because of the cold, Bucephalus is staying home today, curled up on her bed.

She has a light morning with just a few house calls plus a welfare check on a 90-year-old woman at Top Edge Farm. She's looking forward to visiting Al and Frank on the moor in the afternoon. The couple welcomed Joe with open arms during his first visit a few weeks back and Stirling thinks Frank appreciates having some masculine company in the house to talk with.

"Try to keep warm, Doc Stirling," says Morwenna as Stirling prepares to load the Triumph. "It's a nippy one today."

As she rides out of town, she can feel the bite of the cold wind on both her cheeks.

_Nippy is right_, she thinks, imagining the warmth of Joe's Land Rover, which she knows isn't too far behind her.

_Enough of that_, she cautions herself, giving the bike a burst of speed to give her something else to concentrate on.

The morning goes by quickly and she is relieved to find old Mrs. Wellington in perfect health.

_All that concern from her granddaughter over nothing_, Stirling thinks.

She stops at one of her favourite pubs located not far from the moor and snags a table for two. About five minutes later, Joe walks in.

"I ordered your favourite and a glass of milk," Stirling says as he sits down at her table.

"Thanks."

Within minutes, their food arrives.

Stirling feels slightly uncomfortable as she bites into her club sandwich. She looks around the dining room, fighting back a feeling of paranoia. There are quite a few diners in the room and every seat at the bar is full but as she scans the faces, no one stands out.

"What's wrong?" asks Joe, perhaps sensing her apprehension.

"I'm just having a case of the heebie jeebies," she says, eating a forkful of salad.

"What do you mean?"

"I feel like someone's watching me."

Joe instantly turns to look around the room.

"Don't look!" Stirling hisses, annoyed.

"Trade me spots," he says, standing up. "I shouldn't have my back to the door anyway."

She settles into Joe's old spot but still feels uneasy.

As he eats his steak and onion sandwich, Joe looks calmly around the pub, searching for suspicious behaviour. It takes him about three scans of the room before he spots a bulky looking man sitting at a single table near the entrance to the loo. He's wearing a wool cap pulled very low over his eyes, hunching over his plate of curry. He's still wearing his coat, despite the heat in the pub. Every so often, his eyes skip over to Stirling.

Joe continues to casually eat his lunch, occasionally watching the man from the corner of his eye. He's definitely watching Stirling.

Joe's about to stand up and approach him when the man gets up from his table and walks over to the bar. He pays his bill and leaves, turning away from the road as he exits the pub. Joe jumps up to follow.

"Don't move," he says to Stirling, who looks up in surprise. He walks to the main doorway, pauses a moment and leaves the pub, following the same path as the bulky man. A few minutes later, Joe returns to the table.

"What's going on?" asks Stirling.

"I lost him," says Joe, slightly out of breath. "He must have started running as soon as he was out the door because by the time I walked out, he was gone. I looked everywhere but couldn't find him. He probably went into the woods behind the pub."

"Who?"

"The guy who was watching you," says an exasperated Joe.

"There actually was someone watching me?"

"Yeah, a bulky looking bloke over by the loo," he says, pointing in the general direction.

"What did he look like?"

"I couldn't really tell. He had on a long wool coat and had his hat down covering most of his face. He was at least six-foot; a big guy."

Stirling sits at the table quietly for a moment.

"This is crazy," she says, flapping her arms in frustration. "I hate this waiting crap! I want to get it over with. Have him come for me. I don't care!"

Joe realizes it's time to leave the pub. He hands a passing waitress more than enough money for their meals, grabs Stirling by the arm and walks her outside. It's obvious she's distressed. He's just not sure what to do about it.

"All I'm doing is waiting around for the inevitable," she rants, pacing back and forth in the pub parking lot. "No one can keep me safe, not even you. He'll get past your guard, no matter what you do. Spencer always wins. And you'll end up hurt or dead. Nothing will stop him."

Stirling feels herself becoming more and more agitated but fights against the rising panic.

_I have to maintain control_, she thinks, closing her eyes, concentrating on slowing her breathing.

"Are you okay?" asks Joe, concerned.

"I'll be fine," she says quietly. "I'm sorry. I kind of lost it there for a moment."

"You're under a lot of stress. It's understandable."

Stirling looks at Joe, smiling sadly.

"I'm a doctor. I should be used to stress by now and know how to handle it."

She takes a deep breath.

"I better get going. There's still a bit of a drive ahead to get to Frank and Al's," she says.

She walks over to the Triumph and kick starts it to life. She waves as she passes Joe climbing into the Rover.

Once she's travelling down the road, Stirling begins to feel better.

_There's something about riding the Triumph that always helps chase away the demons_, she thinks.

She gives the bike a bit more gas and feels it surge ahead, the wind whistling around her helmet, the surface pressure pushing her goggles tighter against her face. If she could smile at this speed, she would.

_Damn_, thinks Joe as he watches her pull farther ahead.

There's no way the Land Rover can keep up with Stirling's Triumph if she decides to go full throttle.

_And she's well on her way there_, he thinks as he looks down at his speedometer.

_When I catch up with her, I'm going to have to give her a ticket_.

He knows the way to Stone Manor Farm but he is uncomfortable with losing sight of Stirling.

_We should have waited a bit longer at the pub before leaving_, he thinks. _I should have made sure she was calm before I let her drive off_.

* * *

She is about 10 minutes ahead of Joe when Stirling pulls into Al and Frank's lane. She is met with silence as she turns off the bike and rocks it onto its stand. She climbs off and looks around.

_Where are the dogs?_ she wonders. The shaggy beasts usually come to greet her, particularly if Bucephalus is not riding shotgun. Instead the farm yard is quiet and still.

She reaches into the sidecar and lifts out the Buchwald's box of medical supplies, carrying it to the front door. She knocks and waits. A minute later, she knocks again, louder. The third time, she pounds on the door. Nothing.

With a feeling of dread, Stirling sets down the box and reaches forward to try the door knob. It turns easily. The door isn't locked.

She walks into the dark house and instantly feels the difference. It's cold. Too cold.

"Frank?" she calls. "Al?"

The grandfather clock in the front hall isn't even ticking, she notices.

And then she is scrambling down the hall toward the back of the house, almost losing her footing as she bangs into the frame while running through the doorway into the old living room.

The view of the moor out the large back window is still as stunning as ever and light streams through the glass, illuminating the room with a warm light.

In the hospital bed on a nest of brightly coloured pillows is a petite red-headed woman. She is lying in the arms of a thin, dark-haired man. They are both covered by a bright crazy quilt. Al and Frank. They're not moving.

* * *

Joe is cursing old police Land Rovers, stubborn women and the speed capabilities of Triumph motorcycles as he pulls into the Buchwald's lane. He parks right behind Stirling's motorcycle, almost knocking it over. He jumps out and slams the door, angry and annoyed. It's as he rounds the back of his vehicle that he sees the front door is wide open. A brown box sits on the step.

"Stirling!" Joe shouts, running toward the house, steadying his portable radio so it doesn't pop out of the holder on his duty belt - a common occurrence and job hazard.

"Stirling!" he yells, sprinting through the front door into the dim light. He skids to a stop, almost hitting the grandfather clock in the front hall, turning in a circle as he tries to get his bearings.

_Down the main hall to the back of the house_, he remembers.

"Stirling! Stirling!"

He stops shouting as he enters the room.

Stirling sits curled up in an arm chair by the back window that showcases the wild beauty of the Bodmin Moor. She is gazing through the glass into the distance, the diffused light making the red highlights in her auburn hair shimmer.

Joe turns toward the hospital bed that dominates the room. A crazy quilt has been placed over what appear to be two shapes lying in it. Both are completely covered.

"They're dead," she says matter-of-factly, still looking out the window, her face incredibly pale. "Al died Wednesday morning; Frank Wednesday night."

"Frank was pretty smart about it," she adds. "He turned off the heat and opened all the windows so the house would cool down, preserve their bodies until Friday afternoon, when I would arrive."

Joe walks slowly past the bed and over to Stirling. He kneels in front of her.

"How do you know that?" he asks softly.

"Know what?"

"That Al died Wednesday morning and Frank Wednesday night."

She turns to look at him, her eyes a bit glassy and distant, like she's not all there.

"Because they left me a letter," she says, referring to a white envelope sitting on a small table beside the chair.

Joe reaches out to take it but stops himself.

"You can read it," Stirling says, turning her head to look out the window again. Her light dusting of freckles is so vibrant against her pale face.

Joe takes the envelope and carries another arm chair over to the window. He sits down and reads the neat writing on the front of the envelope: _Doc Stirling_.

He opens the flap and pulls out two pieces of paper neatly folded together. He opens them and reads the top page.

_Dear Stirling,_

_Frank is typing this for me as I dictate it to him._

_I know it's coming soon. I can feel it crawling closer every day. Please know I'm not afraid; not for myself._

_Ever since that wonderful Christmas our families were able to celebrate together, the pain has been getting worse, the headaches longer, the morphine less effective. For the past few days, even with the pump on full, the medication hasn't been enough to dull the monster. I was afraid to tell you last week, concerned you would think up some new drug regime or treatment that would only delay the inevitable._

_You have been a wonderful friend to us, Stirling. I know you've only meant the best for me. But I can't handle much more of this pain. It's time for me to move on and face my next adventure._

_I'd be lying if I didn't admit I have some apprehension about going ahead alone. I've always been a little afraid of the dark._

_Please tell that grumpy old Chief of yours I lasted longer than even he expected. I feel a certain amount of satisfaction in proving him wrong._

_Love,_

_Al_

Joe smiles slightly at Al's parting sentiment. She loved to curse about Doc Martin.

He places her letter behind the second paper and reads on.

_Dear Doc Stirling,_

_Al passed away this morning - Wednesday, February 18. One moment she was smiling and holding my hand; and then she was gone._

_The pain had been bad for so many weeks and it was just getting worse. The morphine pump wasn't able to keep up with her need for pain medication. I started giving her injections on top of what you prescribed. Please understand, I couldn't handle her being in pain. I couldn't listen to her moaning and crying, unable to sleep._

_This morning, she begged me to make it stop. She told me she was ready to go. I gave her what she wanted. She smiled and held my hand for so long._

_But it's so quiet here without her. I realize now I can't let her make this journey alone. There is nothing left for me here anymore; everything that was true and beautiful in my life drifted away this morning._

_You have been a great friend to us, Doc. Please know Al looked forward to your visits every Friday. She was so excited to meet your friend, Joe. She always worried about you being alone._

_I know what I'm about to do might be considered cowardly and selfish by some. But I just can't continue without her. No amount of morphine would ever be enough to dull the pain of her absence._

_I have left letters and instructions for our families in other envelopes on the bedside table. Please ensure they receive them._

_I wish you all the best Doc Stirling._

_I'm finally following my own advice - Don't wait. Don't think. Just go for it._

_Love,_

_Frank_

_PS - My neighbour Albert Ketchum took the sheep and dogs. I didn't want them to suffer on their own._

Joe folds the two letters together and slips them back into the envelope before returning it to the table next to Stirling's chair. He kneels down in front of her again.

"I'm going to have to call this in," he says softly. "Can I get you anything? Some water? A pillow? A blanket? Do you want me to call someone to come get you, take you home?"

She turns and looks at him, a sad smile on her face.

"I need to fill out the medical certificates of cause of death," she says.

"I can get the Doc to do that," he says.

"No, you can't. I am the attending physician. I am required to fill out the forms. I have some in my bag. I'll go get them."

They both stand up together. Stirling staggers forward a step, a little unsteady on her feet. Joe catches her before she falls into him.

"Thanks," she says, regaining her feet.

"I can go get your bag," says Joe, heading for the door.

As he walks to the Triumph, he pulls out his radio and calls in the situation and his location. Sliding the radio back into place, he knows the Buchwald's small tranquil farm on the moor will soon be a hive of police activity.

* * *

It's late Friday night before Joe and Stirling are free to leave Stone Manor Farm. Even though Stirling has both death certificates completed before the first officers arrive, she still spends the next three hours answering questions from several different police constables. By the time she's cleared to leave the scene, she is physically and mentally exhausted.

A couple of constables work together to stow the Triumph in the Buchwald's garage for the night.

"Hopefully someone can come by tomorrow and fetch it," says Joe, climbing into the Land Rover. Stirling is already in the passenger seat, half asleep, clutching her doctor's bag to her chest.

"Okay?" he asks.

She nods her head.

It takes them about an hour to drive back to Portwenn and the trip is a silent one. Periodically, Joe looks over at Stirling, who alternates between gazing out the side window into the dark or resting her head on the padded side of her bag.

He's worried.

Earlier in the day, he contacted the surgery to let Morwenna and the Doc know what had happened. Morwenna assured Joe she would take Bucephalus out for his evening romp before she left for the day.

As Joe unlocks the front door of the surgery, he hears the dog bound down the stairs. Bucephalus watches with great interest as his mistress shuffles into the front vestibule, pulling off her winter coat and hanging it on a hook. She sets her doctor's bag on the closest chair she can reach in the waiting room and slowly climbs the stairs, the dog following behind. Joe watches her quietly.

He does his regular nightly inspection of the building - doors and windows, inside and out. And, after shutting off most of the lights, he too climbs the stairs for bed.

He's surprised to find Stirling's bedroom door open. He looks in and sees her lying on the bed, still fully clothed.

"Stirling, are you okay?" he asks, cautiously entering the room. He's never been in her bedroom before, believing some rooms in a house you need to be invited into. But his personal moral code is overruled by his concern.

He walks over to the side of the bed where she is lying and squats down.

"Stirling," he says again. "Don't you think you might be more comfortable if you change into what you wear to bed?"

She looks at him and nods her head wearily. She sits up on the side of her bed but makes no effort to disrobe.

"Do you want me to help?" Joe asks, a little concerned she might think he's trying to take advantage of her.

She nods her head again and sits passively as he unbuttons her blouse and carefully pulls her arms out of the sleeves. Underneath, she's wearing a long-sleeved cotton shirt. She raises her arms as he pulls the bottom hem over her head. Under that layer, she has a sleeveless undershirt.

_Good enough_, thinks Joe.

He reaches down and pulls off her boots, placing them neatly beside her bed. He then pulls two pairs of socks off each foot.

Her trousers are more of a challenge. Stirling seems to realize this, standing up from the bed. But as he unbuttons her trouser clasp at the waist, she leans forward and grabs the hem of his blue wool pullover, yanking it over his head.

"What are you doing?" he asks as she pulls his arms out of the sleeves and throws the pullover on the chair behind him. She removes his clip-on tie and starts unbuttoning his uniform shirt, pulling it out of his trouser waist and his duty belt at the same time.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks, his voice shaky.

She pulls his arms out of the sleeves and throws the uniform shirt on top of his pullover.

He's down to his white undershirt.

She reaches down and unclips his duty belt, wrapping it around one of the bedposts. And then she is unbuckling his belt and opening the clasp of his trousers.

"I think you better stop," Joe says, grabbing her hands.

She looks up at him.

"I don't want to be alone tonight," she says quietly. "We don't have to do anything. I just want you to hold me."

He looks at her and sees in her eyes the same loneliness that he sometimes sees reflected in his own face when he looks in the bathroom mirror late at night.

He reaches down and finishes the job himself, kicking off his shoes and pulling off his uniform trousers and socks, leaving just his boxers. At the same time, Stirling removes her own trousers. She's wearing boy-cut underwear underneath.

She turns and pulls back the covers of her bed, crawling over to give him room to get in. He lies down next to her, pulling the covers up over both of them. Joe turns on his side to face her, snuggling his head into the soft pillow. And then she's close beside him, wrapping her arms around him, snuggling her head on his chest. He wraps his arms around her, supporting her against him.

"It's okay," he murmurs, petting her hair and holding her close. "It's okay."

Stirling doesn't cry. She just wants to sleep.


	19. Chapter 18

Joe is floating leisurely on his back down a cold stream wending its way through the Bodmin Moor. He recognizes it from his childhood. He and Sam used to explore the banks, make little boats from sticks and leaves and race them in the current.

He can hear a dog barking. It sounds close.

He looks at the right and left sides of the stream as he continues to float along but he can't see a dog anywhere.

_Maybe it's a fox?_ he thinks.

No, the sound is too deep, too large for a fox.

A wolf?

_There's no wolves in Cornwall_, he scoffs.

But just to be safe, he wishes he had his rifle with him and, suddenly, it's lying across his chest. He loves it when that happens in dreams.

The current is starting to get rougher. The sharp edges of rocks are visible above the rushing water. Even so, he can still hear the barking over the roaring stream.

He hears a shout. Was that his name?

Joe sits up in bed, sweat dripping down his face. He's freezing.

_Where the hell am I?_ he thinks. _Why can I still hear barking?_

It takes a few heartbeats but it all clicks in to place. He's in Stirling's bedroom, in Stirling's bed; the barking is coming from Bucephalus, who is attacking the windowsill; the shouting is from Stirling, who is yelling his name; and it's freezing because the bedroom window is open.

The bedroom window is open.

_Shit! __The rifle_, he thinks.

Joe leaps out of bed and runs across the hall. He grabs his rifle from behind the guest bedroom door and sprints back into Stirling's bedroom. She is still in the bed, staring with fear at the scuffle taking place by the side window. Joe gestures her to the far side of the mattress, stepping between her and the activity.

There's a dark form scrabbling at the windowsill but Bucephalus is proving to be a challenge, snarling and barking and rushing at it.

Joe brings the rifle to his left shoulder and looks through the scope. The lighting is dim but the form is definitely a man with light brown hair poking out from under is wool cap.

"Don't move," Joe commands in his best "don't mess with me" law enforcement voice. He clicks off the safety with his thumb at the same time. "Armed police."

The man looks up at the sound of Joe's voice. Up to now, he has been kept busy wrestling with Bucephalus, trying to get the huge dog away from him. Now, he takes in Joe's rifle, his undershirt, his boxer shorts, mussed hair and bare feet.

"You whore," he snarls toward Stirling, who crawls completely off the bed and into the farthest corner of the room.

There's the glint of something reflecting in the moonlight. The man is holding something metallic in his hand.

Joe fires.

Despite all his brave talk and police constable swagger, Joe's never pointed a loaded gun at another human being in his life, let alone actually shot at someone. Sure, he's hunted animals and practiced at the firing range. But all of his police training was done using dummy weapons with no ammunition. He's never even used his taser, which is usually kept in a storage compartment in the Land Rover. And the only time he actually dispensed pepper spray was by accident after the canister holder snagged on a door lock mechanism in the men's washroom of the Bude police station.

So, as he pulls the trigger, Joe's not sure how he feels about shooting another person. He's always wanted something exciting to happen in Portwenn but perhaps not quite this exciting. All he can think about at this moment is protecting Stirling - she put her faith in him, not Scotland Yard.

He knows the bullet hits the man. He sees him flinch and cry out. And then the form disappears from the windowsill.

Joe runs forward, sticks his head out the opening and looks down. The man is repelling down the wall. Joe's bullet might have hit him but the man can still move and quickly.

"Go in the washroom and lock the door," he says to Stirling as he turns from the window and runs to the bedroom door. "Don't open it for anyone but me."

Joe runs into the upstairs hall and half trips, half falls down the stairs, ricocheting off the wall at the turn half way down. He's at the front door, opens the lock and runs onto the front terrace.

He looks right toward the village. He can hear voices and movement. Lights are clicking on in nearby houses. He looks left, up the hill, and sees a black form running awkwardly into the night. He runs in pursuit, gripping his rifle tightly in his left hand.

"Stop, police," he shouts, sprinting as quickly as he can up the rise.

The dark form turns toward the walking path along the cliff top, Joe following quickly behind him. Further back can be heard other voices and people running. But soon they are drowned out by Joe's own panting and the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.

His lungs are starting to burn. He sees the man head of him, running along the walking path with a strange, shuffling gait.

"Stop," he yells again, raising his rifle and firing a round ahead of the dark form. It ricochets off a rock outcropping, startling the man to a sliding stop, suddenly uncertain if the way ahead is safe.

Joe keeps the rifle raised as he comes up behind him.

"Raise your hands and turn around slowly," he orders.

The man raises only his right arm, the left hanging useless at his side. He turns slowly as Joe approaches cautiously.

"Nice boxers," the man says, laughing. "Stirling always did prefer men who wore boxers over briefs. Better access, if you know what I mean."

He laughs again and slaps the heel of his palm against his forehead like he suddenly remembers something.

"What am I saying; of course you know!"

Joe ignores him.

"Don't move!" he barks, straining to listen behind him for the approach of backup. He hopes there's backup coming. There had been other voices behind him. They must have seen where he went. Or heard the rifle shot.

"So, what do you think of her?" the man says with a lecherous grin, his eyes dancing with excitement. "Stirling's a real GGG, isn't she? Good, giving and game between the sheets. A real blanket monster. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more!"

_This guy is completely barmy_, thinks Joe.

His adrenaline is still pumping but he can feel the cold beginning to creep into his bare toes and fingers. He concentrates on keeping his frigid arms still; he can't allow the rifle shake.

"You know, I'm extremely angry with you, whoever the hell you are," the man continues. "I find you in bed with my fiancee and then you have the audacity to shoot me in the arm. I think you're a real wanker. I don't like wankers. I'm going to make you suffer."

"And how do you plan to do that from prison?" Joe taunts, struggling to keep the rifle steady.

"Who said I was going to prison?" the man says, laughing.

Suddenly, he leaps toward the cliff edge and is gone.

As soon as Joe senses movement, he fires the rifle. He knows the bullet's gone wide, the shake in his arms too much to keep the firearm steady. He runs up to the edge and looks down. It's not a sheer drop but it's steep. And almost impossible to negotiate in the dark. It's also the exact same spot where Bucephalus had found the dirty T-shirt more than a week earlier.

"Stop!" a voice yells from behind him. "Put your arms up."

Joe follows the instructions.

"Put the rifle down slowly and push it backwards with your foot."

He does as he's told.

"Turn around slowly and keep those arms up."

Joe turns slowly, momentarily blinded by a bright spotlight shining in his eyes.

"PC Joseph Penhale, 3021, Cornwall and Devon Police," he says, trying to shade his eyes.

He hears murmuring from the other side of the spotlight.

"Nice uniform, Penhale," says DCI McDonald, stepping into the light. "Everybody stand down. He's one of us."

"He went over the edge," Joe says, referring behind him. "Literally over the edge.

DCI McDonald steps forward, peering down into the darkness.

"Bring that spotlight over here," he shouts.

Soon the area is illuminated. Nothing can be seen except for scrubby greenery, long grass, rocky crags and a challenging descent.

"He went down there?"

Joe nods, his teeth chattering.

"He's wounded," he stutters. "He's been shot in the left arm."

"OK, we're going to need more spotlights, some flashlights and climbing rope," DCI McDonald yells to the assembled police officers behind him. "And someone give this man a jacket or blanket or something before he freezes to death."

* * *

The officers search all night and well into the morning but no trace of Spencer Graham is found. Using a tracking dog, the team does manage to follow a blood trail down the steep hill and to the water's edge. But despite working the shore in both directions, the dog can't pick up a scent exiting the surf.

"It's like he went into the water and kept on going," DCI McDonald mutters to himself.

Someone manages to rustle up an anorak, a pair of pull on running pants and some beat up trainers for Joe but he still can't seem to get warm. About an hour into the search, a call comes over the police radio from Portwenn.

"We've tried everything sir but we can't get her to unlock the door," a constable reports to DCI McDonald. "She says PC Penhale told her not to open it for anyone but him."

DCI McDonald looks over at Joe.

"You might as well go back to the village and sort that out," he says. "There's not much more you can do standing out here. We'll find him."

A constable drives Joe in a Land Rover back to the surgery.

Upstairs, he's met with a strange sight. A police sergeant and constable sit on the floor of Stirling's bedroom, leaning against the wall outside her closed bathroom door. Dr. Ellingham and Louisa sit perched on the edge of her bed, which Bucephalus is sprawled across, snoring loudly.

"She says she won't unlock the door for anyone but you," the Doc explains. "We tried to make her see reason but ..."

Joe walks up to the bathroom door, stepping over the legs of the police officers. He knocks.

"Stirling," he says. "It's Joe. Please open the door."

He hears movement from the other side.

"Joe? Is that you."

"Yes, it's me. Unlock the door."

"What's the code word?"

_Shit!_

Joe stands there for a moment, his mind blank. It's been a long night and, since his accident several years back, he's been prone to memory lapses.

_What's the code word?_ he thinks.

He remembers discussing one with Stirling.

_It had to be a word that wouldn't come up in regular conversation_, he recalls. _It was exotic..._

"Sassafras," he says.

The bathroom door clicks as the lock is disengaged.

Joe slowly turns the knob and peeks around the door.

"Can I come in?"

Stirling sits on the edge of the tub, still in her undershirt and underwear. She looks exhausted. She nods.

Joe snags her dressing gown from the hook where it hangs on the outside of the bathroom door and squeezes through a small opening he makes between the door and the jam. He shuts the door behind him.

Stirling suddenly stands up and throws her arms around him, hugging him close while burying her head into his chest.

"Whoa," he says, staggering slightly under her sudden weight. "I'm glad to see you, too."

Just as quickly, she backs away and punches him hard in the left shoulder.

"OW! What was that for?"

"I've been sitting freezing my arse off in this bathroom for hours," she says angrily. "You said lock yourself in the bathroom. Don't open the door for anyone but you. But do you come back? No!"

"I've been kind of busy chasing your crazy boyfriend," Joe says, rubbing his shoulder. "That really hurt!"

"He's not my boyfriend!" she shouts back, looking like she's about to kick him in the shins.

"I've been dealing with Cagney and Lacey out there for the past two hours," Stirling continues. "And then they go and get the Chief and Louisa involved. I've been expecting my sister and Rob to suddenly show up. You know, they probably could of travelled from Yorkshire to Cornwall and back again in the amount of time it's taken you to wander back."

She paces back and forth in the small space, stopping in front of him, her arms fiercely crossed.

"Where were you?" she asks, emotion cracking her voice. "I've been worried sick."

Tears track down her face and Stirling shakes uncontrollably.

Joe puts his arms around her again, hoping he doesn't get punched or kicked. He flinches as her arms move but she wraps them around his torso, hugging him back.

They stand that way for awhile, both of them enjoying being held by the other.

_I could very easily get used to this_, thinks Joe.

Eventually Stirling steps back, wiping at her eyes.

"What on Earth are you wearing?" she asks.

Joe looks down. He hadn't actually looked too closely at the clothes the other officers provided for him. He had been more concerned about getting warm.

What he assumed was a police anorak actually turns out to be a violet coloured warm-up jacket for a women's weightlifting club with the name Roxy embroidered in dark purple on the front. As he takes it off, Joe discovers the back features a large cartoon of a muscle bound woman lifting an impossibly stacked bar of weights, the logo Heavy Duty Dame proudly displayed underneath. The running trousers match with the jacket and have Roxy embroidered across the bum.

Stirling giggles.

"Hello Roxy!" she says, choking back a laugh.

Joe sighs, puts the jacket back on, hands Stirling her dressing gown and walks out of the washroom without saying a word.


	20. Chapter 19

Despite an extensive search of the Portwenn area, weeks go by and no further sightings are reported of Spencer Graham. No one has seen him since he disappeared over the cliff bank along the north Cornwall coastline.

According to DCI McDonald, he probably drowned in the sea or bled to death from his gunshot wound.

Stirling isn't convinced.

Eventually, the security details are pulled from the area and Joe is ordered back to regular duty, his replacement reassigned.

Stirling misses him, his wonderful meals, his familiar company, his goofy sense of humour, the way he can make her laugh.

Joe misses Stirling, too. Some nights, he sits in his Land Rover and watches the surgery, doing his best to keep her safe. She sees him parked on her dead end street from time to time. He's been a faithful friend through all of this craziness, she thinks. And he's still keeping an eye out on her behalf.

She finds herself thinking about him more often: his silly social gaffs, his nervous stutter, his charming smile, the way he looks in his police uniform, the way he looks out of it. She's attracted to the police constable and she's not sure that's a good thing.

_Look what happened with Spencer_, she thinks.

Stirling also finds herself relaxing her vigilance a little more each day, the shock of that February night fading. Her heart doesn't beat as fast when she sees a strange car in the village. She's not as suspicious of vehicles travelling behind her on the moor. She becomes lax about locking the back door of the surgery.

Winter wanes in Portwenn, a welcome occasion for everyone, including Stirling. The days are sunnier and warmer; the daylight lasts longer, allowing she and Bucephalus to wander further afield on their walks.

And with the arrival of spring comes the biannual Portwenn Talent Show. The village is still abuzz with talk of last fall's show, which Stirling won with her rendition of the Boomtown Rats' _I Don't Like Mondays_. More than a few residents are wondering how she plans to top that performance.

But Stirling isn't certain she wants to perform in the April event. She's not sure Dr. Ellingham has forgiven her last performance.

"There's a certain level of decorum a village doctor has to maintain," he had ranted as Louisa rolled her eyes behind him. "What do you think your patients thought when they saw you up there, performing like some lounge singer?"

"I hope they thought I was singing well," she had answered, which hadn't helped her argument. And the fact she won had made him positively apoplectic.

Louisa of course found it all to be great fun.

"Don't listen to him," she had whispered. "It's good to support village events. It makes you part of the community. He's just angry because he has no talents except for medicine, surgery and fixing clocks."

Thus Stirling was of two minds when it came to the talent show. But that didn't stop her patients from hounding her endlessly about what she planned to sing or providing her with their own ideas.

"That Snoopy the Dog is wonderful," suggests Mrs. Chadwick. "You can sing one of his songs and have male back-up dancers in thongs."

Bert thought something by Roxy Music - _Love is the Drug_ came to mind - would be the perfect talent show selection, considering it was written by Cornwall native Andy Walker.

Morwenna thought a Tori Amos tune would be perfect for Sterling.

"And Tori just lives up the road in Bude."

What settles the decision for her is meeting up with Joe during one of his morning jogs. She and Bucephalus are hiking the cliff trail when she sees him running toward her.

"Hiya," he says, stopping to catch his breath. "You're out early."

"He really needed to stretch his legs before morning surgery," she says, gesturing to Bucephalus, who is sniffing Joe's shoes.

"How far did you go today?" she asks.

He glances at his watch.

"About three miles so far. Are you all set for Friday?"

"Friday?"

"The talent show," he says.

"I'm not sure ..."

"You should enter again. You're great," he says, beginning to continue his jog.

"But I haven't even picked a song yet."

"I've always liked The Beatles," he says, jogging backwards a few steps. "Cheers."

_The Beatles?_

* * *

Stirling's typically a little nervous before a performance but this time she is positively terrified as she waits for her turn on the stage.

The village hall is packed. According to Roger Fenn, it's the most they've ever had attend the talent show. As a result, Joe is triple checking the audience numbers against the occupancy limitations plus double inspecting all emergency exit access before he lets the show begin.

Luckily, they fall within the parameters (_and no one considers counting the performers_, thinks Stirling) and the show goes on.

Stirling is listed last on the program, a perk for having won in the fall. It's no perk for her. She's more of a "get it over and done with" kind of person. Waiting is just making her nerves worse.

At least she's allowed to wait backstage and doesn't have to be amongst the crowd. She sits on an old wooden chair in her costume - more like a uniform - and practices her chords. An old folk guitarist from the village has agreed to help her with the bass parts. He performed earlier in the program and is leaning against the wall in the wings, watching the performer before Stirling.

All too soon, the piano solo is over and the stage crew is shifting the large instrument from centre stage. She hears Roger call her name and carefully walks onto the black stage to polite applause. She finds her mark in front of the centre microphone. She shoulders her guitar and checks to make sure her bass player is in place and ready.

_Here goes nothing_, she thinks as the bass line begins, the spotlight flashes on and she starts to sing.

* * *

At first Joe isn't really certain who is standing on the stage. Roger had announced Stirling but this woman looks nothing like her. First off, she's wearing a skirt - a tight black skirt at that - and Stirling never wears skirts or dresses. He should know, he practically has her wardrobe memorized. Because of the skirt, he can see this woman's legs - which are very fine indeed. On top, she's wearing a black suit jacket and tie with a white dress shirt. She looks like a waitress or a female member of - The Beatles.

It all clicks into place for Joe, including the song she's singing. He wants to get closer, move from his traditional vantage point - leaning against the back wall. But it's too crowded; there's nowhere to move to.

So he watches and he listens to his dream coming true.

* * *

"Yeah I'll tell you something I think you'll understand," Stirling sings practically a cappella with just the bass player accompanying her. "When I say that something, I want to hold your hand. I want to hold your hand. I want to hold your hand."

Now, she joins in with her own guitar.

"Oh please, say to me, you want to be my man. And please, say to me, you'll let me hold your hand. Now let me hold your hand. I want to hold your hand."

The music goes back to just bass accompaniment with some light drumming on the body of the guitar between chords.

"And when I touch you, I feel happy inside. It's such a feeling that, my love -"

Stirling joins in again loudly with her guitar.

"I can't hide, I can't hide, I can't hide."

"Yeah you, you've got that something I think you'll understand. When I feel that something, I want to hold your hand. I want to hold your hand. I want to hold your hand. I want to hold your hand"

When Stirling finishes and the final chord from her guitar vibrates away to nothing, there is silence. She's thankful for the spotlight because she can't see anyone's face; she can't see Joe.

A few heartbeats later, the applause begins, And the whistling and the foot stomping and the bravos. She smiles and bows, says thank you into the microphone and gives her bass player a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

The song went well. She's glad the audience enjoyed it. But she hadn't performed it for them. She sang it for her favourite fan - who always stands in the back - just because he told her he always liked The Beatles. She hopes he understands.

Stirling sits on her wooden chair backstage and listens to Roger explain what happens next. The judges will retire to The Crab and Lobster to decide the talent show winner while enjoying a pint. The crowd is welcome to wait and enjoy some refreshments and dancing.

Stirling stows her guitar in its case and sets it out of the way. She'll collect it later. Out in the auditorium, people are moving the chairs back against the walls or standing in line to buy a drink at the small bar.

Louisa approaches her, trailed by a serious looking Dr. Ellingham, and gives her a hug.

"That was beautiful," she says wiping at her eyes with a tissue. "You made me cry."

Louisa turns to look at the Doc, who stands there for a moment before he offers Stirling his hand.

"Well done," he says solemnly, shaking her hand.

"Thanks Chief," she says, somewhat shocked.

Morwenna comes running, dragging Al behind, her eyes red rimmed.

"I hate you," she says, giving her a playful push. "You made me ruin my eye makeup."

Morwenna hugs her and whispers in her ear.

"He couldn't take his eyes off you the whole time. It was like he was mesmerized."

Stirling looks at her curiously. Morwenna nods with her head to the back of the room where Joe still stands, watching her.

"By the way, you look amazing in that skirt," she adds.

"That was fantastic, Doc Stirling," says Al, giving her a hug. "I think you've got this talent show in the bag."

Several other people from the village approach her with their praise as Stirling walks over to join the drinks line.

And then Joe is beside her.

"That was quite the performance," he says. "You had most of the ladies in the room weeping."

"I'm glad you liked it," she says. "I have you to thank for the idea. You said you liked The Beatles."

Joe blushes and looks at the floor. Stirling has an overpowering urge to kiss him but holds back. Instead she reaches out and takes his right hand in her left. And she doesn't let go.

Joe isn't sure what to do. The woman of his dreams is holding his hand. But he's in uniform, meaning he's on duty, meaning he's prohibited from amorous displays. But the woman of his dreams is holding his hand. He interlocks his fingers with hers. And they stand side-by-side enjoying the moment.

"What would you like?" he asks when they finally reach the bar.

"A glass of ice water, please."

He orders a lemonade drink. He has to let go of her hand to pay and she's disappointed by the loss of it.

He hands her the ice water, pockets his change and picks up the lemonade in his left hand, using his right to grab her hand back. Stirling feels a thrill in her stomach.

"Would you like to sit over there," he suggests, referring to a section of chairs along the wall away from others.

"Yes."

He escorts her across the room, still holding her hand, and offers her a chair. She sits down, careful to fold her skirt properly. He sits down next to her and picks up her hand, holding it in his on his leg. As Stirling takes a sip of her water, she realizes everyone in the room is staring at them.

Joe relaxes against the back of his chair and takes a drink of his lemonade.

"Have you ever wondered what it must be like for fish in an aquarium or ants living in an ant farm?" he asks.

Stirling tries her best to keep a straight face, to keep the laugh in, but she can't. She snorts a few times and then she and Joe are bent over laughing. It takes about 30 seconds before they're back under control. By then everyone is done staring.

"Thanks, I needed that," says Stirling, taking another sip of her water.

"Glad I could help."

Joe looks down at her hand resting on his knee.

"I've wanted to do this for a long time but never had the nerve."

She looks at him.

"What?"

"Hold your hand," he says, giving it a squeeze.

"Glad I could help," she says with a smile.

She wants to kiss him but is uncertain, The room is full of people very much aware of the fledgling couple in their midst, including the Chief, who she can feel staring daggers at her from across the room. Louisa is holding his hand, talking into his ear.

Morwenna is just grinning like an idiot while Al keeps shaking his head like he's in shock.

Most of the crowd has dispersed at the bar when the lights are dimmed and the music begins. A few couples get up and dance, including Bert and Jenny plus Morwenna and Al.

As she watches the people seated around the room watching the couples dancing, Stirling has the overwhelming feeling she has gone back in time and is attending another boarding school mixer. She's about to lean over and share her observation with Joe when the music ends and a slow song begins.

"Would you like to dance?" he asks her.

"I'd love to."

Stirling is a bit surprised. In her experience, most men hate dancing and getting one to ask you is usually impossible. But as they join the other couples on the dance floor, Stirling understands Joe's openness to the activity - the police constable can dance.

"Who taught you how to dance?" she asks as they float around the dance floor.

He blushes.

"My mum. She taught Sam and I."

"I feel like I've won the lottery," Stirling says, laughing. "I've probably found one of the few police constables in England who can dance well and he lives in a small fishing village in Cornwall."

"Who taught you?"

"Dancing was a compulsory subject at school," she explains. "All intelligent, cultured, well mannered young ladies are expected to know how to dance. The boys from Eton and the other boarding schools were forced as well. We would have these mixers and cotillions where we were forced to dance with the spotty-faced prats. It was horrible."

Joe smiles as they move on the dance floor in perfect step, like they are made for each other. And Joe begins to think that maybe they are. As the song begins to end, he grows cocky and spins her a few times, making her laugh.

The next song is slow as well and they stay on the dance floor. He could have danced with her all night.

Several songs later, Roger announces the judging has been completed and the next song will be the last of the evening. It's another slow song, slow and romantic. Joe clutches Stirling to him as they dance. She lays her cheek on his chest, just under his chin. Joe's fairly certain he's the luckiest man in the room.

When the song ends, people grab chairs from along the walls and sit back down in rows before the stage. Stirling and Joe find a place to sit along the far wall, her hand still firmly in his.

The judges, feeling good after their pint or two, hand Roger a slip of paper and he stands at the centre stage microphone to make the announcement.

In third place is Amy Taylor, a 12-year-old girl with a unique juggling talent.

In second place is the old folk singer that played bass for Stirling.

And in first place, for the second time in a row, is Dr. Stirling Aylesworth.

"Congratulations," says Joe, kissing her on the cheek in front of everyone. "Go get your prize."

Stirling leans over and whispers in his ear: "I think I just received it."

She walks up the side steps to the stage and shakes hands with Roger. He presents her with her trophy, which is an exact replica of the trophy she received in the fall, complete with the fish on top. Stirling thanks the audience and the judges before returning to her seat. She just hopes she can contain her laughter until the show is over.

As Roger wishes everyone a good night, Joe reaches over to examine the trophy.

"The coveted Portwenn singing fish," he says solemnly.

Sterling chokes back a laugh that is threatening to erupt out of her mouth, resulting in a cough-like noise.

Joe watches as her face turns red and tears begin to run down her cheeks.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice full of concern.

She nods her head rapidly, swallowing her laughter and wiping away tears.

"I just choked a little," she says hoarsely.

The crowd quickly disperses with a few people stopping to congratulate Stirling on their way to the door. She waves goodbye to Morwenna and Al plus the Ellinghams, who are on the other side of the room.

She turns to Joe.

"I have to pick up my guitar from backstage," she says.

"I'll go with you."

Hand in hand, they weave their way around the people and down the back hall to behind the stage.

The spot where Stirling set her guitar case is empty. She looks around the room, thinking it might have been moved. It is nowhere in sight.

"That's strange," she says, looking around the room again. "My guitar case is missing."

"Someone stole your guitar," says Joe, immediately switching into police constable mode. He lets go of Stirling's hand and reaches for his notebook and pencil, tucked in his duty belt.

"I doubt that's happened," she says. "Someone's probably picked it up by mistake."

"What does the guitar look like?" asks Joe, all business.

Stirling gives him a look.

"You know what it looks like. I was playing it up on stage about an hour ago."

Joe looks at her sheepishly.

"I wasn't really looking at the guitar."

"Fine. It looks like a typical acoustic guitar. It has a black strap with my name embroidered on it in silver thread. It's in a black guitar case, which is clearly labelled with my name, address and mobile number on both the inside and outside."

Joe dutifully marks all of this information down in his notebook.

"Where did you last see it?"

Stirling points to the area she had set the case before joining the audience after her performance.

"Now are you sure you didn't set it somewhere else?" he asks.

Stirling gives him an exasperated look.

"It's not that big of a room, Joe. I've looked everywhere. It's not here."

"Well, hopefully it's just a misunderstanding and someone's picked it up in error," he says.

Stirling looks around the room one more time.

"Come on, I'll walk you home," says Joe, putting away his notebook and pencil and taking her hand again.

They exit out the back door of the village hall into a beautiful warm spring evening. The sky is clear and the stars shimmer down on the darkened village.

"Beautiful," says Stirling, looking up at the bright dots of light. "They're this bright up in Yorkshire as well, that is if the fog and mist hasn't settled over the moor. In London, I never saw the stars, too much smog and light pollution. I never knew how much I missed them until I came here."

Joe looks at her as she gazes upward.

"The light from them makes your eyes sparkle," he says, his voice a bit husky.

Stirling turns her head to look at him, thinking this might be the moment he kisses her. He looks at her and she aches to lean in and kiss him. He turns away and the moment passes.

The couple walks through the dark village streets hand in hand, eventually climbing the hill up to the surgery. They follow the stone path around to the back door. Joe tries the knob and the door easily opens. He gives her an annoyed look.

"You're supposed to be locking your doors," he says angrily. "Anyone can just walk in. We still haven't found Spencer yet."

"I know but it just seems wrong that some injured person could be kept from obtaining medical assistance by a locked door."

"For all you know, there could be some druggie crazed out of his head ransacking your medicine cupboard as we speak," says Joe, pushing by Stirling and entering the house.

"I highly doubt that," says Stirling, entering behind him. She stops to pet Bucephalus, who has come into the kitchen to greet them.

Joe systematically searches the whole building, top to bottom, including cupboards.

Stirling stands in the kitchen, waiting.

"All clear," he says, finishing in the consulting room.

She gives him a told-you-so look.

"You can't be too careful," Joe says, standing in front of her. "I don't want anything to happen to you."

He's so close, right in her personal space.

She looks up and he leans down and kisses her gently on the lips, making her stomach feel squiffy. She wants to push back, go further but Joe backs off slowly.

"In a few weeks, the Devon and Cornwall Police Force is holding its Policeman's Ball," he says. "I was wondering if you would like to accompany me. This year it's being held in Cornwall, in Truro."

Stirling is thrilled by the idea but feels some apprehension around the word Ball.

"Sounds formal," she says

"It is. We get all dandied up in our dress uniforms and try to impress the top brass," explains Joe. "I haven't been in years."

Stirling thinks for a moment and nods her head, smiling.

"I'd love to go."

"Great," says Joe with a smile.

The couple look at each other, uncertain what to do next. Stirling's so thrilled by the kiss and the invitation to the Ball, she wants to kiss some more. Joe's so excited by the kiss and her acceptance of his invitation, he's afraid to kiss her again in case he cocks everything up.

"I guess I better get home," he says, moving slowly toward the back door. "You lock this door behind me."

"I will," says Stirling.

Joe stands in the doorway and looks back at her. He can't help himself; he leans down and kisses her again. He feels her respond, move closer, raise her hands to his shoulders, but he pulls back and breaks the kiss.

"I think that's enough for tonight," he says hoarsely. "Much more of that and I won't be able to stop."

"Who said I would want you to," says Stirling boldly.

"I think we should take this a little bit slower," he says. "Goodnight Stirling."

"Goodnight Joe."

She shuts the door behind him and turns the lock.

She then proceeds to jump up and down in the kitchen, her mouth stretched in a silent scream of joy.

Outside, Joe does a fist pump in the air and runs home in the dark, his foot falls echoing off the dark buildings lining the narrow streets.


	21. Chapter 20

The next few weeks fly by for Stirling, who is kept busy treating patients battling a spring cold plus handling her regular consultations and house calls.

She also manages to see Joe a few more times during those weeks; dinner out a couple of nights, a long walk along the cliffs on the weekend, a movie at the cinema in Wadebridge. But hand holding and chaste kisses are as far as he will go, much to Stirling's dismay.

Her mind is also kept busy over this time trying to decide what one wears to a Ball. Her wardrobe is empty when it comes to formal attire.

In the world of medicine, masculine clothing has been a fashion necessity for Stirling. She believes dressing too feminine can be distracting for both male and female patients. Trousers, tailored shirts and jackets plus sensible shoes and boots, all in practical neutral colours, have always been her uniform of choice. It just makes life - and dressing in the morning - simpler.

So when it comes to finding and choosing feminine formal wear, she decides to consult the two most fashion conscious women she trusts - Louisa and Morwenna. They are quite chuffed to be picked for such an important task and set aside a Saturday to travel to Truro and the shoppes.

Stirling finds the entire experience overwhelming and exhausting as she is dragged from dress shoppe to dress shoppe only to be poked and prodded into all manner of torture devices.

The sales ladies take one look at her svelte figure and pour her into close fitting bombshell dresses that make Stirling blush. Every curve is accentuated from her breasts to her hips to her calves.

"These dresses are x-rated," she says as she turns in front of the mirror while wearing a skin-tight red one. "Nothing is left to the imagination."

Long dresses make her look too tall, short dresses too busty, tight dresses too sexy and baggy dresses too frumpy.

It takes all day and dozens of store stops to put together the perfect look - a short-sleeved, full skirted, 1950s-style party dress with a tight bodice and tulle crinoline in fire engine red; a matching red pill box hat with a thin veil; a pair of black, elbow length gloves; black matching undies, bra, stockings and garters, plus a pair of sensible short heeled black shoes.

Louisa finds the perfect long red tulle scarf to go with it while Morwenna insists on a pearl bracelet to wear on her wrist over the gloves.

"I feel like I should have a tiara and one of those long cigarette holders," Stirling says with a laugh.

"I didn't know you smoked," Mowenna says, shocked.

"I don't. I was joking."

"You look stunning," says Louisa, her eyes shining with excitement.

"He won't know what hit him," adds Morwenna, grinning like a little girl.

* * *

The day of the Policeman's Ball is a busy one for Stirling. She does a full morning of consultations followed by a quick house call after lunch. She manages to get Bucephalus out for a short romp before soaking in the bath. By 3:30, she is clean and dry and ready to start the process of dressing.

The garter belt and stockings prove challenging but she eventually figures it out. With all of her matching underwear on, she slips into the dress, which she admits does look stunning. By 4, she is ready for Louisa to work magic on her hair, which she fixes in an up do, pinning the pill box hat at a roguish angle, ignoring Stirling's protests.

Morwenna uses only a small amount of make-up on her cheeks, lips and around her eyes.

Pearl bracelet on, red scarf draped and purse clutched, Stirling is ready.

Louisa and Morwenna wish her a happy night and head home for their own evening events.

At 4:30 on the dot, the front door bell rings. Stirling makes sure the back door is locked, kisses Bucephalus on the head and takes a quick look in the hall mirror. She opens the door and is greeted by a freshly scrubbed, shaved and handsome PC Joseph Penhale, dressed in a spotless black formal uniform, complete with medal, plus very shiny dress shoes. On his head is a peaked cap, the police crest on the front. He even has gloves.

"You look stunning," he says, his eyes wide and full of admiration. "I wasn't sure if you were home, it took so long for the door to open."

"I had to lock the back door. You look quite handsome yourself," she says, blushing.

He offers her his arm and waits while she locks the front door before escorting her over to his Land Rover, which also looks freshly scrubbed. As he helps her up into the passenger seat, the crowd of giggling girls passes by on their way to the beach.

"Ooooo Constable," says Blondie, stopping to stare. "You're all dressed up for a date with Doc Stirling."

She turns to the passenger side window, which Stirling has rolled down.

"You must be really desperate and lonely if you're going on a date with PC Penhale."

The other girls laugh at her cruelty.

"Oh, I don't know," says Stirling, leaning out the window. "I hear he is a right proper shag. And I think he brought his handcuffs."

She gives Blondie a big, bold wink and rolls up the window as Joe puts the Land Rover in reverse and deftly turns around in the surgery parking lot. The giggling girls are left in the dust.

Stirling chuckles to herself while Joe blushes.

She glances over.

"I'm sorry but I've been wanting to put that girl in her place for a long time. I apologize if I embarrassed you. It was not my intention."

She stretches her right hand across the seat and sets it on Joe's knee.

"You really should put your seat belt on," he says, covering her hand with his.

"But then I wouldn't be able to sit right next to you," she says, bunching over closer to him.

"I know how to fix this," he says, pulling the Land Rover to the side of the road. He starts digging with both his hands in the crack of the bench seat. He manages to find the buckle ends and digs further toward the passenger side in search of the belt end. Several times his hands brush Stirling's bum before he manages to find it.

"You did that on purpose," she laughs as he adjusts the lap belt across her front and clicks it into place.

"I'll take what I can get," he says with a twinkle in his eye.

He puts the Land Rover back into gear and pulls carefully back onto the road.

"Now I feel better," he says taking Stirling's hand and putting it back on his left knee.

"Because you were able to get a feel?" she asks laughing.

"No because now you're safe and buckled in," he says seriously. "I wouldn't want anything to happen to you."

Stirling squeezes his knee and he covers her hand with his.

They drive in silence, enjoying the feel of each others fingers and palms and the close proximity of their bodies to one another.

"You said you haven't been to one of these events in awhile. How long has it been?"

Joe thinks for a moment.

"It must be almost eight or nine years," he says. "The last time I went, I took Maggie."

Stirling feels a flare of jealousy in her belly and almost laughs out loud at the silliness of it.

_You're jealous of a woman from eight or nine years ago?_ she thinks.

"Who is Maggie?" she asks.

"My ex-wife," Joe says.

Stirling's stomach sinks.

"We've been divorced for about seven years and she left me not long after the last one we attended."

She sits quietly, letting the information sink in.

"What happened?" she asks.

"Well, there was a fancy dinner, dancing and later the chiefs made long-winded speeches. I think it was a cash bar."

"No, I mean what happened between you and your wife?"

"Oh," says Joe, embarrassed. "She met another bloke. He ran a garage across the road from the hair salon she worked at. One thing led to another and she moved out."

"That must have hurt," she says solemnly.

"It did at the time," he says. "But I wasn't the man for her."

Joe squeezes her hand and lifts his off, putting his left arm around her shoulders. Stirling leans into his side.

"What happened to her?" she asks, unwilling to drop the subject.

"I don't know," he says. "I saw her again about three years ago. It was really strange. Her fiance had left her and she had some sort of mental breakdown. She developed a form of amnesia and came to Portwenn thinking we were still married."

Stirling turns to look at Joe.

"Transient global amnesia or a variation of it," she says.

"That's exactly what the Doc diagnosed."

"How long did it take for her to regain her memory?" she asks.

Joe's silent for a moment.

"A little over three days," he says quietly.

Now it's Stirling's turn to be silent.

"What did ..." she starts but gets no further.

"It wasn't one of my greatest moments," says Joe defensively. "I was very lonely and I still loved her. She shows up thinking we're still married, kissing me, touching me ..."

Stirling looks at him sharply.

"You had it off with a woman displaying symptoms of transient global amnesia?" she asks incredulously.

"No!" says Joe emphatically. "No way! Not that I didn't want to. But it wasn't the right thing to do. In the end, the Doc diagnosed her and we explained everything to her. She stayed in my guest bedroom. She left town a few days later to return to her job in Bude. I haven't seen her since."

For one wild, disjointed moment, Stirling wonders if Joe's ex-wife has ever cut Tori Amos' hair.

She sits quietly for a few minutes, mulling over this new information.

"Do you still love her?" she asks.

Joe is silent for a moment.

"No," he answers carefully. "I realized that not only was I not the man for her, she wasn't the woman for me. She didn't believe in me. She wanted me to be somebody I wasn't and when that didn't work, she went looking for someone else."

They sit quietly for a while, each lost in their own thoughts.

"I believe in you," says Stirling, looking up at Joe.

He glances over at her with a soft look in his eye, pulls the Land Rover over to the side of the road, and turns it off.

"I know," he says, pulling her toward him.

And then he is kissing her, kissing her the way she has wanted to be kissed by him for quite some time. She brings her hands up to his face, cupping his cheek and running her fingers through his hair. He tries to draw back but she puts her hand on the back of his neck, keeping him from removing his lips. He groans. She feels his hands at her waist then sliding up to cup her breasts. She gasps at the thrill that shoots through her body at his touch. She runs her hands down his back, lower and lower. He unclips her seat belt and she is on his lap facing him, her legs straddling him. His hand goes up her skirt to her thigh and he feels the garter belt and stockings. He groans again and his lips are nibbling her ear, kissing her throat, moving lower. She gasps and pants her passion, her eyes closed, her hands moving down his chest to his waist and his belt buckle.

"Oh God, Joe," she pants. "Lights are flashing in my eyes. I want you."

They both are scrabbling at his belt when they hear the police siren. They freeze.

Stirling opens her eyes. A police vehicle has parked behind them, its blues and twos activated. A constable is climbing out of the driver's side.

"It's a copper!," she gasps, scrambling off Joe's lap and grabbing her seat belt. She clicks it into place just as the constable knocks on the driver's side window. Joe rolls it down.

"Good afternoon, Constable," Joe says pleasantly. "What seems to be the problem?"

"I was about to ask you the same question, Constable. I saw you parked here and wondered if you were maybe having some mechanical difficulties."

Stirling feels a giggle rising in her throat but chokes it down.

"My girlfriend and I are on our way to the Policeman's Ball in Truro," Joe explains. "She became a little excited and I had to pull over."

"Excited?" the constable says with a frown. "Have you been arguing? Drinking?"

"No," Stirling answers quickly. "I get panic attacks. I'm really nervous about this Ball and I had an attack. Sometimes I vomit and I didn't want to do that in the Land Rover."

"You seem alright now," the constable says, looking at her suspiciously.

"Yes, I've calmed down, thank you," she says, smiling. "When you pulled up, I was giving my boyfriend a hug for being so understanding."

She leans over and gives Joe a big kiss on the cheek.

"He's such a sweetie," she gushes.

The constable is quiet for a moment, staring at the two of them.

"You need to move this vehicle," he says. "And you two have a good time at the Ball tonight."

"Thank you, Constable," Stirling says.

"And Constable," he says, leaning in the window to talk to Joe. "You might want to pull up your zipper. You jammy bastard."

With one last glance at Stirling, he walks back to his car. A moment later, he blasts his siren and drives away.

Joe and Stirling sit for a moment in silence. He pulls up his zipper.

Stirling puts her hand back on his knee and feels trembling. She looks over to see Joe red in the face, tears in his eyes, trying his hardest not to start laughing.

She feels a chuckle burst out of her throat and then both of them are laughing. They laugh nonstop for what feels like hours, leaving them gasping for breath.

Joe wipes at his eyes.

"It's a copper," he giggles, starting to laugh all over again. "I didn't know whether to laugh or feel insulted. And you moved so fast ..."

Stirling slaps him lightly on his left shoulder.

"She became a little excited and I had to pull over," she mimics in a deep voice.

"Well, you were," Joe says

"And who got me that way?" she demands with mock indignation.

Joe pulls her over to his side and kisses the top of her head.

"You really are something, Dr. Stirling Alyesworth," he says affectionately.


	22. Chapter 21

They make it to The Alverton hotel in Truro by 6 p.m., just in time for dinner.

As they enter through the main reception doors, Joe begins to fidget and pull at his uniform sleeves.

"What's wrong?" Stirling asks.

"I'm nervous."

"Why?"

"I told you, it's been awhile since I've been to one of these dos. And the last time, it didn't go too smoothly."

"You didn't mention that," she says. "If you weren't so keen, why did you invite me?"

"I wanted to impress you," he says sheepishly.

Stirling pauses for a moment.

"I have to go to the loo and fix myself. You do the same. We'll meet under that big clock in five minutes."

Stirling heads for the ladies and fixes her hair, readjusts her hat and freshens her make-up just as Louisa and Morwenna had instructed her. She inspects her dress and fluffs up the crinoline. A quick glance to make sure her garters and stockings aren't showing and she's ready to go.

Joe is pacing nervously under the clock. His hair is neatly combed and his uniform brushed.

"What happened the last time you attended the Ball?" Stirling asks.

Joe blushes.

"I'm not very good at meeting people, making friends. I get nervous. I rub people the wrong way. They find me annoying."

"I'm your friend," she says.

"That's different."

"Don't worry," she says, taking his arm. "Stay close to me. Be yourself. And don't try so hard."

They follow the signs to the Great Hall and enter the huge room side-by-side. It's seething with black suited police constables and their garishly dressed spouses or girlfriends. Stirling's mind flits back in time to a similar room - her boarding school formal - with a similar crowd - a sea of Eton-tied prigs and pastel coloured daft cows. Except for Michael, who had clung to her like a child. They had wowed that group of prats that night. Stirling and Joe can do it tonight.

A woman in a hideous powder blue gown approaches them.

"And you are...?"

"PC Joseph Penhale and guest," Stirling says with a smile.

The woman checks her clipboard.

"Oh yes, from Portwenn," she says in a patronizing tone. "You're seated at table 36. The map is right over there," she adds, referring to a piece of Bristol board propped on an easel. "You can fill your name tags out at that table over there."

Stirling and Joe walk over to the table map.

"No name tags," she whispers to him. "Keep them guessing."

He nods.

She examines the layout and finds table 36. Way out in the cheap seats. Unacceptable, she thinks.

She looks around the room, trying to assess where the top ranking officers are. The Chief Constable and the Deputy Chief Constable are easily spotted - just look for the politicians. But Stirling isn't aiming that high. She'd settle for an Assistant Chief Constable or a Chief Superintendent.

Thanks to spending a few years in a law enforcement household, she knows the Devon and Cornwall force has three Assistant Chief Constables, each responsible for a specific portfolio, such as crime or territorial policing.

As Stirling looks about the room, she notices a photographer set up near the far wall taking photos of couples.

"Let's get our picture taken," she says to Joe and leads him over to the short line.

When it's their turn, Stirling fusses over Joe, making sure he's posed perfectly, hat under arm, uniform straight. She stands close beside him, linking her arm through his and follows the photographer's instructions.

"Beautiful," he says, snapping several photos. "You look wonderful together."

"Thank you," Stirling says demurely. "How do we pick up our prints?"

"You give me your name and we post your proofs up on that wall over there," the photographer explains. "They'll be sorted alphabetical. You choose the proof you would like printed and give us a call. We can take your order over the phone and mail you the prints. Our contact information is on the back of the proof."

"Wonderful, thank you," she says, giving him their names.

Stirling and Joe casually walk over to the wall of photos and she starts memorizing names with faces. She's half way through the group, mentally sorting them by rank, when she comes across two familiar faces.

"I recognize this couple from somewhere," she says, pointing out the photo to Joe. He examines the photo as well.

"He's a sergeant and appears to be based in Bude," he explains.

The names do not resonate with Stirling - David and Briar Thomas.

As she moves through the rest of the posted photos, the MC announces that dinner will be starting in five minutes.

_Damn! Not enough time_, she thinks.

"I'm sorry Joe, I was going to try to get us a better table but it didn't work out," she explains.

"How were you going to do that?"

"Long story."

They are just beginning the long hike out to their table, Joe gripping her left arm under his right, when Stirling hears her name being called. She pauses, looks around and spots the couple from the photograph she had recognized.

"Dr. Aylesworth, I thought that was you," says David, extending his hand to shake hers. "Fancy meeting you here. A bit of a drive from Portwenn."

And suddenly it all clicks into place.

"Sergeant Thomas, Briar, so good to see you again," she says. "How's Emily?"

These are the parents of the little girl who swallowed the fish bone all those months ago.

"She's growing like a weed," Briar gushes. "She still talks about you, the nice lady that pulled the fish bone out."

Joe makes a slight noise in his throat and Stirling knows he has caught on.

"How did that all turn out?" she asks.

"We followed your advice and took her to an ENT. He decided to take her tonsils out as a precaution," David explains. "She's right as rain now."

"I'm glad it all worked out," Stirling says, turning to Joe. "I'm sorry I've been so rude. I've been so busy catching up that I forgot to make introductions. Joe, this is Sergeant David and Briar Thomas, from Bude if I recall. Sergeant and Briar, this is my good friend PC Joseph Penhale from Portwenn."

Hands are shook all around.

"You can call me Joe."

"And you can call me David; don't worry about the Sergeant part."

"Dr. Aylesworth," says Briar.

"Just call me Stirling."

"Stirling, there's someone who I know would really like to meet you. He didn't get a chance to talk to you the day of the accident and he really wanted to."

"Yes," agrees Stirling.

Gripping each others hands tightly, she and Joe weave through the crowd, following the other couple toward one of the reserved tables at the front of the room. A distinguished grey-haired man is chatting with two young officers - _Sergeant Alexander Tolby and Sergeant Jack Drixoll,_ notes Stirling. Beside him stands an attractive white-haired lady in a tasteful mint coloured gown that suits her perfectly. Stirling estimates the couple is in their early 60s.

"Daddy," says Briar, interrupting the conversation. "I want to introduce you to Dr. Stirling Aylesworth. She's the doctor who helped Emily during that incident in Portwenn."

The man turns toward Stirling and she instantly recognizes him.

"Yes, yes, the young doctor who saved our Emily," he says, extending his hand and shaking hers firmly. "It's an honour to finally meet you. I'm Assistant Chief Constable Eric Barnett and this is my wife, Melanie."

"Pleased to meet you sir, ma'am," says Stirling formally. "This is my good friend PC Joseph Penhale. He's based in Portwenn."

The Assistant Chief Constable extends his hand out to Joe, who is standing at attention.

_He looks like he's about to salute_, thinks Stirling.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir," says Joe, shaking his hand. "Ma'am."

"Likewise PC Penhale."

"You can call me Joe."

"Well Joe, you can call me Chief Barnett."

"You can both call me Mel," says Melanie Barnett, patting Stirling's hand. "You made us all look like silly fools that day and we deserved it."

"Please understand that wasn't my intention, Mel. I was just trying to help Emily."

"I know and we thank you for that."

As they talk, more and more people start moving to their tables.

"I guess we should find our seats," says Stirling, taking Joe's hand in hers.

"You'll sit with us," says Chief Barnett. "We have lots of room."

Soon two extra place settings and chairs are added to the table and the three couples, including the Thomas', are sitting together. Stirling's not quite sure how she's done it but she's accomplished what she set out to do - introduce Joe to some key people in the police force and get them a better table.

As they are waiting for the blessing to be read by the police chaplain, Joe leans over and whispers in her ear.

"You really are quite something."

Stirling smiles.


	23. Chapter 22

The dinner is roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and Stirling is soon entertaining her table mates with stories of growing up on the Yorkshire Moors and having a Yorkshire bobby as a brother-in-law. Their table is soon roaring with laughter.

"I'm curious, Joe. How did you and Stirling meet?" asks Briar.

Stirling looks across at Joe and wonders which version he plans on using.

"I was trying to give her a parking ticket," he says with a smile.

Everyone at the table laughs.

"She had parked her motorcycle in a tow away zone and I was trying to get it moved. She had on this helmet and goggles and jacket - I thought she was a man. When she took off her helmet and I saw my mistake, I was flustered and I ended up forgetting to give her the ticket."

They laugh again.

"But I did get her name, address and marital status," he adds, looking at Stirling shyly.

"Smart man," booms Chief Barnett.

He turns to Stirling.

"And you ride a motorcycle. How unexpected."

"It was my father's," she explains and spends the next 20 minutes describing the renovation project.

"Now it's extremely handy for making house calls on Bodmin Moor or at isolated farms."

"You still make house calls?" asks Mel with surprise. "I thought that was a thing of the past."

"We do in Portwenn," says Stirling proudly. "My Chief would love to do away with it but we have many elderly people within our practice who can't get into town or are bed ridden."

"Your Chief?" asks David.

"I'm sorry, I should explain," says Stirling blushing. "When you are an interning doctor training for your speciality, you work under a more experienced doctor who acts as a mentor. He or she is usually referred to as Chief. It's a sign of respect. I work with Dr. Ellingham, whom you met that day in Portwenn. He is older, has more experience both as a surgeon and a GP. I call him Chief as a sign of respect and also out of habit."

"I find it so interesting that you grew up in Yorkshire yet you have no accent," says Briar.

"I attended an all-girls boarding school where it was forced out of me," says Stirling with a wry smile.

"Where?" asks Briar.

"Wyecombe Abbey School in Buckinghamshire."

Briar and David look at each other in amazement.

"That's the top girls' school in all of the UK," says David. "That must have cost a pretty penny."

"David!" scolds Mel with a look of disapproval.

"It's quite alright," says Stirling. She turns to David. "I was there on a double scholarship for academic achievement and musical ability."

"Music!" exclaims Mel.

"Stirling is an accomplished singer, guitarist and pianist," says Joe with obvious pride.

Stirling blushes.

"How extraordinary," says Chief Barnett. "What do you do in your spare time, Joe?"

Soon the Chief and Joe are talking about camping, fishing and survival courses while David, Briar and Mel quiz Stirling on boarding school.

"We've been trying to find one for our girls," Briar explains.

With the dinner now over, the crowd is being urged to visit an adjoining room for refreshments while the Great Hall is set up for dancing.

Joe pulls out Stirling's chair and takes her hand to escort her. With his arm linked through hers, they follow the Chief and his family into the bar room.

"David," says Chief Barnett, snagging a snifter of brandy from a tray going by. "Joe was just telling me that he's quite keen on attending the selections course for the Tactical Aid Group. He tried to qualify a few years ago but was injured just before the course."

Stirling watches this exchange with great interest.

"We'll keep you in mind when the next course becomes available," says David. "I help out during the selections week. Unfortunately, we just finished this year's course but there's always next year's."

"That would be wonderful," says Joe enthusiastically, shaking David's hand.

"No problem."

David turns to Briar and Stirling.

"Can I get you ladies a drink?"

"I'll have a white wine, dear," says Briar.

"A glass of ice water, please."

"You don't drink, do you Stirling?" Chief Barnett asks.

"Not only am I allergic to it, it's also a habit you form when you become a doctor. You never know when there's going to be an emergency. You need to stay sober."

"Very wise," he says, nodding his head.

David returns with the drinks and Stirling takes a sip of her water.

"I didn't know you were allergic to alcohol," Joe whispers.

"Very allergic. It has a bad effect on me."

"What?"

"You don't want to know."

With a flicker of the lights, the guests are informed the Great Hall set up is complete. The group wanders over and find some seats at a large table on the far side of the room. They are soon joined by others, among which are a few chief superintendents, at least three chief inspectors and some sergeants. Joe is the only constable at the table.

"Eric, you were certainly enjoying your dinner this evening," says one of the chief superintendents.

_CS Russell Cardman_, thinks Stirling.

"It was my delightful dinner companions," he says, introducing Stirling and Joe to the group.

"A doctor," says one of the chief inspectors - _CI Matt Schinkler_ - with a lecherous laugh. "Hey Doc, I've been having this really bad ache in my groin area."

To illustrate the point, CI Schinkler spreads his legs and grabs the crotch of his dress trousers.

_Charming_, thinks Stirling, wondering what number drink he's on for the evening.

She feels Joe tense beside her and squeezes his hand in reassurance.

"In my expert opinion, that sounds like it might be one of two possible diagnoses," she says pleasantly. "In some cases, men with smaller than average penises and testicles experience chronic discomfort in their groin area due to space limitations for sperm production. There's really not a lot a health professional can do for you in that case. I'm afraid the prognosis is not promising - you will always possess a tiny knob with no balls."

A few people in the group snicker.

"The other possibility is you have a buildup of ejaculate. This is commonly seen in sexist wankers who lack the social skills and manners to attract a wife or keep a steady girlfriend for any length of time. As a doctor, I'd have to refer you to a specialist. Just know you're going to end up blowing a wad paying for her services."

The men at the table roar with laughter while the women blush and giggle. The chief inspector just looks angry and embarrassed.

"You deserved that, Matt," roars Chief Barnett, giving him a healthy slap on the back.

Joe puts his arm protectively around Stirling and shifts his chair closer to hers. It's an aggressive display of ownership, she thinks with a twinge of annoyance. All of the men at the table have taken note.

She feels like a bone.

"Down boy," she whispers in Joe's ear. He gives her a strange look. "I'm already yours. You don't have to pee on me," she says dryly.

Joe chokes on a laugh and she pats his back, offering him a sip of her water.

The lights are dimmed in the Great Hall and the band begins to play. Soon couples from their table are up dancing.

"Would you like to dance?" Joe asks Stirling.

She smiles and shakes her head. "I'm waiting for a slow song."

She puts her left hand on his knee and gives it a squeeze. He tightens his arm around her, practically pushing her onto his lap.

She chats amiably with the other couples at the table. She has already memorized their names. Now she finds out where they live and what the wives and girlfriends do for a living. She's surprised to discover she's the only female professional at the table, the only one actually employed. Most are stay-at-home mums and homemakers. A few are retired, like Mel, who used to be a school teacher.

Stirling can feel a wave of claustrophobia washing over her as she listens to talk of play dates, potty training and school bullying.

But then a slow song is playing and she and Joe are up dancing. He holds her close and spins slowly around the dance floor with her and she feels safe and relaxed.

"Having fun?" she asks.

"As long as I'm with you."

They dance together for a few songs and then return to their table. Even more people have pushed in with the lively bunch. Joe heads to the bar to get a round of drinks and water for Stirling. A few of the other men go with him to help carry it all back.

"So, you're a doctor?" asks a platinum blonde sitting to her left.

Stirling didn't see her picture on the wall.

"Yes."

"Then what are you doing with a police constable, one from Portwenn no less? Take my advice, stick with handsome doctors. Cops are tossers."

Stirling finds the blonde's comments rude and intrusive but, then again, she's used to working with the Chief.

"PC Penhale is charming, sweet, handsome and knows how to treat a lady," she says. "And don't sell Portwenn short. Joe just finished four weeks of protective duty. It had to do with that inmate who escaped from Broadmoor."

"Really?" says the blonde. "They say that guy's really dangerous."

Stirling nods her head very solemnly.

_What a shallow ditz_, she thinks.

The men return with the drinks. Stirling finds herself dancing with Chief Barnett for a few songs and then Sergeant Thomas. Joe dances with a few of the other officers' wives, particularly the ones whose husbands won't dance.

_That's sweet of him_, Stirling thinks.

The evening is getting late and she can feel herself tiring. It's been a long day considering she started with a full morning of surgery appointments. She's also getting restless. She wants to spend time alone with Joe.

As if reading her mind, the band plays a slow song. Stirling stands up and leads Joe to the dance floor. He holds her even tighter to him and she closes her eyes and rests her cheek against his upper chest. As they slowly dance, Joe sings softly into her ear.

"I can be your hero baby. I can kiss away your pain. I will stand by you forever. You can take my breath away."

Stirling lifts her head up and kisses Joe, a long, deep, lingering kiss that goes on and on. She feels him respond back, pressing her ever closer to him, his hands on her back and then going lower.

They break apart, breathless.

"I think it's time to go," she says.

"Definitely."

They walk back to their table and gather up their belongings.

"Good night, everyone," she says shaking hands with the Chief and David. Mel and Briar give her a hug. "It's been a pleasure spending the evening with you."

Joe says good night as well and David promises to keep in touch with him.

They walk briskly to the reception entrance and Joe gives the valet his parking stub. He holds her close beside him while they wait for the vehicle, Stirling resting her head against his shoulder.

When the Land Rover arrives, he helps her in and trots over to the driver's side, passing the valet a tip. They start the long drive home.

Stirling sits in the middle again, close to Joe, who has his arm around her. She leans into his chest and closes her eyes. Her right hand rests lightly on his upper thigh. And that's the position she's in when she falls asleep.

Joe drives through the night, humming to himself for company. He keeps as still as he can to avoid waking Stirling, who is obviously exhausted.

As they get closer to Portwenn, he pulls off onto a narrow gravel lane that meanders along the cliff tops beside the sea. He finds a good vantage point and stops the Land Rover, turning off the ignition.

"Stirling," he says softly. "Stirling."

She stirs.

"Are we home?" she asks sleepily.

"No. I stopped just outside Portwenn to show you something."

He opens the door and climbs out, turning to help Stirling down. He grabs a blanket from behind the seat and shuts the door.

"It's so dark," says Stirling.

He leads her to the side of the Land Rover and she feels herself being boosted up onto the bonnet. He gives her behind a pinch before jumping up beside her.

"Hey!" she protests. "Keep your hands to yourself."

Joe inches himself back on the bonnet until he's up against the windscreen. Stirling slides up beside him. He unfurls the blanket and spreads it over their legs. And then they both lay back against the windscreen, looking up at the sky.

"It's beautiful," Stirling gasps, looking up at the glittering blanket above her. The stars are incredibly vibrant against the pitch-black sky.

"I thought you would like," says Joe, cupping his hands behind his head. Stirling does the same. They lie there without talking, enjoying the seemingly endless expanse of night sky with the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs down below.

"Did you enjoy yourself tonight?" he asks.

"I did," answers Stirling. "Did you?"

"I had a wonderful time." Joe says, turning on his side to look at her. "You were there with me."

He reaches for her and they kiss. She pushes against him and he against her and soon passion is flaring. His hands grip her bum through her dress and she whimpers. He slides them up her sides until they are at her breasts and she's gasping, her mouth open against his, her teeth nipping his bottom lip. He rolls on top of her and with a slip and a slide, they fall over the side of the Land Rover, landing with a thump on the grass.

"Oh my god, are you okay?" cries Joe, feeling her limbs for broken bones.

Stirling is too busy laughing to answer.

"I'm fine," she finally gasps out, putting her arms around him and kissing him again. Soon they are rolling around on the ground, the blanket under them to protect them from the dew. Joe's hand is up her dress, rubbing her upper thigh where the garters meet her stockings. His other hand is massaging one of her breasts. Stirling is grabbing his bum with one hand while she massages the front of his trousers. Both of them are panting, wanting more but afraid to make the first move. Stirling is the bravest, rolling on top of him and reaching down with both hands to undo his belt and trousers.

"Wait," Joe says, making her pause. "Wouldn't this be more comfortable in a bed?"

Stirling is well past caring about beds but she rolls off him with a groan of frustration. She lies on her back panting, staring up at the sky.

Joe rolls over beside her and hugs her close. He kisses her cheek tenderly.

"We're almost home," he says softly. "We'll be there in no time."

"I was almost there," she pouts, making Joe laugh.

He helps her up and escorts her to the Land Rover, setting her gently on the passenger seat.

"Don't move," he says, slamming the door and running over to the driver's side. He jumps in, starts the motor and turns the Land Rover around.

In five minutes, he's parking in one of the vacant spots beside the surgery. He jumps out, races to the passenger side, opens the door and picks her up in his arms, making her laugh. He shuts the Land Rover door with his hip.

Stirling's not sure how but he manages to climb the flagstone stairs carrying her. He follows the path to the back door and is about to open it when she stops him.

"Put me down," she whispers.

He sets her on her feet in front of the door.

She puts her arms around his shoulders and lowers his lips to hers. She kisses him.

"I want to snog out here first."

He gives her a strange look but kisses her, pressing her up against the door. Their hands are everywhere, their lips chafing against one another. She throws back her head and thumps the door, his lips trailing along her jaw and down her neck. She raises her leg and presses it against his back. His hand comes down and rises up under her dress to cup her bottom. She moans and jumps into his arms, wrapping her other leg around him. He holds her bum in both his hands and presses her against the door, his groin pushing against her.

"Let's go in," she gasps, fumbling behind her for the doorknob. It turns and they almost fall into the kitchen. Stirling giggles and then stops. She stiffens.

_Something's wrong._

Joe can feel the change in her body immediately and sets her down.

Bucephalus is barking fiercely but from the other side of the house.

_The surgery? He would never go over there voluntarily,_ she thinks_._

Stirling turns to walk across the kitchen.

"Bucephalus is in the consulting room," she says. "How did he get in there?"

At that same moment, Joe grabs her arm and yanks her back toward him, wrapping his arms around her and hugging her close to his body. He backs her up against the kitchen counter. Stirling's mind registers annoyance at him.

_Why is he doing this?_ she thinks.

And then she feels a shock wave; a sudden, indescribable pain in her upper left shoulder followed by a deafening bang.


	24. Chapter 23

"PC Penhale, can you hear me? PC Penhale, can you hear me?"

To Joe, it sounds like the voice is echoing down a long, long corridor. And he really, really wants it to shut up.

He has no idea what's going on. Where he is, when he is, why he is, how he is, or what he is. He decides to go through a mental checklist of his senses. He knows he can hear, thanks to that annoying voice echoing endlessly. There's a terrible, bitter metallic taste in his mouth that he longs to wash away with a drink of water. He can see nothing; everything is black. As for smell, it's obvious he's in a hospital - the scent of cleaning solution, medicine, sweat, urine and vomit is very distinct. But feel, feel he wishes would go away forever. He feels horrible, like every bone in his body has been smashed with a spanner, including his skull. The pain is particularly bad in his right shoulder and his stomach - actually the pain is bad everywhere. Before it had been bearable but now - agony.

"PC Penhale, we need you to open your eyes."

He really wishes that voice would go away. It reminds him of his headmaster at secondary school, always banging on about doing homework and having a neat uniform.

_What was that git's name?_ he wonders. _Tindell, Headmaster Tindell._

"Shut up, Headmaster Tindell," he mutters. "You wanker!"

After that effort, his head feels like it's going to explode.

Now a new voice has joined the pounding in his head.

"This is all rather irregular. This man has just undergone three hours of surgery and received multiple units of blood. He almost bled to death! He is still feeling the effects of the anesthetic plus he's in an immense amount of pain. Anything he tells you at this point will be complete gibberish, as you've just seen displayed. I'm going to have to ask you to leave this room or I will call security.

"We're the police," sputters the nagging Tindell voice. "We need answers!"

"I don't care if you're God himself, you're going to have to wait. Or am I going to have to call Dr. Ellingham out of surgery, where he is ..."

Joe loses the rest of the conversation. His head hurts too badly to keep up.

"She's touch and go at this point. We'll know better after surgery."

_She. There's a woman hurt_, thinks Joe.

He should know who she is but the pain is so bad; he can't remember. But he knows she had a red dress. And there were stars.

* * *

It's a new voice the next time. A voice Joe knows but can't quite place.

"Penhale! Penhale! Open your eyes," it commands. "Open your eyes, you idiot!"

"Martin!" says a softer voice. He likes her; he's fairly certain she's a her.

"He needs to wake up!"

"Joe," says the softer voice. "Can you open your eyes? It's really important you open your eyes."

He'll try for her; she sounds kind, like his mum when he was little.

Joe works hard and his eyelids begin to flutter. Light, dark, light, dark. He keeps them open longer and he can see a face, a woman's face with dark hair.

"Mum?" he whispers.

"No Joe, it's Louisa. And Martin," she says, referring to a tall, hulking figure beside her. He's so tall, Joe can't see his head.

"We were worried. You've been asleep so long. And it's important you wake up now."

"It really hurts," he whispers, flinching from the bright light.

"What hurts?" asks the commanding voice.

"Everything; my head, my shoulder and stomach quite badly, my chest when I breathe. I can't seem to move my arms."

"Nurse," says the male voice. "Help me sit him up."

_Sit up?_ Joe hopes he doesn't mean him. He's comfortable where he is. If he doesn't move the pain isn't so ...

"AAHhhh!" he screams as he is grabbed under the arms and pulled up to a seated position on the bed. "You tosser! I think my insides just fell out! That bloody well hurt!"

"I can assure you your insides have not come out," says the snooty voice. "I double checked those sutures myself."

Joe leans his head back and feels a pillow. Sweat is dripping down his face from the pain and effort of sitting up.

"I think I'm going to be sick," he says.

"Give him some water. His mouth probably tastes terrible from the anesthetic, which the idiots used too much of."

Joe feels a straw in his mouth and he sucks in a mouthful of cool, wonderful water.

"Just a bit at a time or you will be sick," says the nurse, pulling the straw out of his mouth.

He can see her now, blue and white uniform, blonde hair in a bun. He looks beyond her to the two other people there. Louisa, dark hair, headmistress of the primary school, Portwenn. She's married? She's married to ... the Doc! Dr. Martin Ellingham, surgeon and GP. He's standing behind her.

Joe is proud of himself; he's remembering who these people are. And the pain has dulled and is becoming bearable again. And his head doesn't hurt so much.

"Portwenn," he says. "We live in Portwenn. I'm the police constable. You're the headmistress at the school."

Louisa smiles and nods her head, encouraging him.

"And you're the village GP," Joe says, looking up at the Doc. But he's wrong, he realizes with a frown. The Doc isn't the GP, not the only GP. There's another.

Louisa looks worried.

"It's okay, Joe," she says soothingly, holding his hand.

He doesn't want to hold her hand. It doesn't feel right. He removes it from her grasp and looks at it, pale and covered in clear tape to keep the IV needle in.

"The Beatles," he says suddenly out of nowhere. He's frustrated, Something's not right.

"Okay Joe, just relax," says Dr. Ellingham, waving at the nurse.

"No," Joe says sharply. The Doc never calls him Joe, ever. Only Penhale. "Something's not right."

He looks around the room. This isn't the right place.

"The dog is barking," says Joe, his voice getting louder "He's barking. He's not allowed in that room. The back door is unlocked; it should be locked. There's someone here!"

Joe grabs Louisa's arm, clearly agitated. She flinches at the pressure. Dr. Ellingham is quickly filling a syringe.

"You have to get out!" Joe shouts, yanking on Louisa's arm. "He's got a gun. You have to get out!"

Dr. Ellingham inserts the syringe into Joe's IV line.

"Stirling!" Joe shouts, suddenly feeling sleepy. "You have to get out!"

He lets go of Louisa's arm as he falls unconscious.

She picks up his limp hand and begins to cry.

* * *

In medicine, as it seems in life, the third time's a charm.

"PC Penhale!" an annoying voice shouts. "PC Penhale, wake up right now!"

_It's that wanker, Tindell, again,_ Joe thinks.

He opens his eyes, ready to punch his old headmaster in the face, but is greeted instead by DCI McDonald and CI Manning. Behind them stands the Doc.

"Sleeping beauty awakes," says DCI McDonald. "We've only been waiting two days."

He glares over his shoulder at Dr. Ellingham.

"His injuries were too severe to have him harassed," says the doctor. "And I warn you, if you agitate or upset him in any way, I'll put him back under and throw you out. I can't have him ripping open those sutures."

The two inspectors have obviously heard this lecture already and nod their heads wearily.

"PC Penhale, how are you feeling?" asks DCI McDonald.

"Thirsty," croaks Joe.

Dr. Ellingham hands him a glass of ice water with a straw. Joe sucks down half the contents.

"My shoulder hurts, my stomach hurts, my arms feel funny and my chest hurts when I breathe."

"How's your head?" asks Dr. Ellingham.

"Much better, thanks."

"The swelling has gone down quite a bit," explains the doctor. "The pressure has been relieved so the pain is dissipating."

Joe has sworn to himself to keep his wits about him this time, to stay under control.

"Where's Stirling?" he asks.

"So, you're starting to remember," says Dr. Ellingham. "That's good. Dr. Aylesworth is still in the urgent care ward."

"Why?"

"PC Penhale, we need to speak to you about what happened," says DCI McDonald, interrupting.

Joe ignores him.

"Why is Stirling still in urgent care?"

"The injuries to her head are more severe," says Dr. Ellingham. "The swelling has not gone down as quickly as we had hoped."

"What does that mean?"

"There's head trauma that is applying pressure on her brain. There may be brain damage. We'll have to wait and see."

Joe shuts his eyes and leans his head back against his pillows.

_Bloody hell!_

He should have got her out of that house. He should have moved quicker. He knew there was something wrong when that door opened. She had locked it. Why didn't he react quicker? Because he had been thinking with his knob rather than his brain.

"It's my fault," he whispers. "I was distracted. I wasn't focused. I was too busy thinking about getting off."

The two inspectors look uncomfortable.

"We've viewed the footage from the door cameras," says CI Manning.

Joe looks up sharply and then leans back again, groaning. He wishes he could cover his face but his arms won't move. Instead he shuts his eyes tightly, trying to block out the world.

"The footage will be destroyed once the internal review and inquest have been completed," adds DCI McDonald.

"Internal review?" asks Joe, opening his eyes again.

"An internal review is always held when someone dies in police custody," says CI Manning.

"He wasn't in my custody!" says Joe. "I was in his."

"He was in the presence of a police constable," says DCI McDonald.

"Who was off duty, unconscious and just had the piss kicked out of him," says Joe, frustrated.

"Can you explain to us what happened?" asks DCI McDonald.

Joe leans back in the bed again. The pain in his head is returning.

"I want to see Stirling," he says, looking at Dr. Ellingham.

"Not now," says the doctor. "She's not conscious. And it would only agitate you."

"I'm agitated now," Joe says. "And my head ..."

"I'll have to sedate him," says Dr. Ellingham.

"No!" DCI McDonald practically shouts. "We need to know what happened."

Joe's quiet for a moment, thinking.

"I'll try my best," he says with a sigh.

"Start from the Policeman's Ball," says CI Manning.

"We left the Ball around 1 a.m." recounts Joe. "I remember thinking we'd be back to Portwenn just after 2 and the moon wasn't to set until 4."

"And this is important because ...?" asks CI Manning.

"Because I didn't take Stirling straight home," says Joe. "I drove her to a spot on top of the cliffs outside of town where the view of the stars is amazing. And the moon is in the perfect position, just above the horizon."

"How long were you there?"

"About an hour and a half, 90 minutes."

"That's a long time to be looking at the stars, Constable," says DCI McDonald.

"That's because we did more than look at the stars. Things became ... amorous between us," explains Joe.

Dr. Ellingham coughs and looks uncomfortable.

"How amorous?" asks DCI McDonald.

"How is that any of your business?" asks Joe, angrily.

"Because you were wearing a Devon and Cornwall Police dress uniform at the time!" shouts CI Manning. "You may not have been on duty but you were representing the force."

Joe closes his eyes and sighs. His head is pounding again.

"I ask again constable, how amorous?"

"We didn't have sex, if that's what you're worried about," Joe says. "She wanted to but I stopped her. I suggested it might be more comfortable and enjoyable in a bed."

"Why did you drive to the surgery? Why not the police station?" asks DCI McDonald.

Joe thinks for a moment.

"I don't really know. Probably because my place is a tip compared to Stirling's. Plus, she has a bigger bed."

"And you know this because ...?" asks CI Manning.

"I spent four weeks on protective duty at the surgery and saw Stirling's bedroom. I also know that to celebrate the Doc hiring her as a GP, she bought the biggest bed possible to mark the fact she would never have to sleep on anyone's cot or roll away again."

The room is silent for a moment.

"So you drive to the surgery. About what time do you arrive?" asks DCI McDonald.

"Sometime between 3:30 and 4. I carried Stirling from the Land Rover to the back door."

"How romantic," says CI Manning, sarcastically.

"I really don't think your personal commentary on the situation is necessary," says Dr. Ellingham icily. "You asked him to relate what happened and how and he's doing so."

Joe looks at the Doc with some surprise.

"When we reached the back door, Stirling asked to be set down," recalls Joe.

"Why?" asks DCI McDonald.

Joe pauses.

"Why?" repeats DCI McDonald.

"She wanted to cop off in the back garden before we went inside," Joe says, blushing. "That is the footage on the CCTV recording."

"And what interesting viewing it is," says an obviously enraged CI Manning. "A Devon and Cornwall Police constable in dress uniform having sexual relations with a tart in a red dress."

Joe tries to move to hit CI Manning but the pain is too much. He finds himself doubled over on the bed, clutching his stomach.

"She's not a tart!" he gasps in pain and rage.

Meanwhile, Dr. Ellingham moves in for the kill.

"Get out!" he roars. "Now! I am tired of hearing your insults and innuendo. You are offensive! You've insulted a highly regarding medical professional who is currently fighting for her life, I might add, due to the incompetence of yourself and DCI McDonald. You've also upset my patient. Get out!"

CI Manning is red with rage.

"You can't speak to a police officer that way," he shouts.

"This is my patient. This is my patient's hospital room. I am ultimately responsible for the care of my patient. You are upsetting my patient. GET OUT!"

DCI McDonald gestures for CI Manning to leave. He does so in a huff.

Dr. Ellingham quickly moves to the hospital bed and helps Joe sit back. He gingerly lifts the blankets, Joe's hospital gown and the gauze dressing to look at his stomach wound. He shakes his head in disgust.

"You've pulled the sutures, you idiot! You've opened the wound. Now it's bleeding. I'm going to have to tighten them again."

He buzzes for a nurse to bring him the necessary supplies and assist. He turns to DCI McDonald.

"I'm going to do this procedure here. You better have your interview finished by the time I'm done or I'm going to kick you out too."

DCI McDonald nods.

"According to the CCTV footage, Dr. Aylesworth opened the door and you both fell into the kitchen. That's the last we see. What happened next?"

"We were laughing," remembers Joe. "And suddenly, Stirling stopped. Her body stiffened and I immediately set her down. The dog, Bucephalus, is barking fiercly. He's shut up in the consulting room, a room he's not allowed to enter and has been trained to avoid. I can tell Stirling is upset about it. She turns to me and says something but I'm not really paying attention."

"Why not?"

"I saw something out of the corner of my eye, a flash in the piano room. It's a metallic flash. It reminded me of something my advanced gun course instructor once explained. In the desert or an area of high light, snipers rub mud or animal feces on the metallic parts of their rifles to dull them, to keep the sun from glinting off them."

Dr. Ellingham glances up from his task to look at Joe, who flinches as the doctor bends back to his work.

"I knew it was a gun. It all happened so fast: remembering the back door is supposed to be locked, understanding the flash is from a firearm, the dog barking. Stirling was moving away from me, deeper into the kitchen toward the hall to the consulting room. I yanked her back by the arm. I pushed her up against the kitchen counter and wrapped my arms around her, trapping her arms down by her sides. I was facing her. It's the only thing I could think of to do in that amount of time. And then I felt this searing pain in my right shoulder and hear a bang. I think we both fell to the floor."

Joe takes a sip from his drink.

"I must have blacked out. I don't think it's for very long because when I come to, Stirling has somehow dragged me under the kitchen table. She is bent over me, crying and yelling my name. I can also hear someone else yelling, taunting in a sing-song voice."

"What was the other voice saying?" asks DCI McDonald.

Joe pauses, flinching at the memory and from Dr. Ellingham's suturing.

"Ling-Ling's a whore," he whispers. "Panda Bear's been cheating with a copper. Panda's been pumping with a plod."

Dr. Ellingham makes a face of disgust.

"The man grabbed her and dragged her out from under the table while she screams. I tried to hold her hand but my right arm won't work. He hauled her to her feet and slapped her, hard. She said, 'Spencer, Joe's just a friend. Joe's just a friend.' And the man - who is Spencer Graham - just laughed at her and called her a liar. 'I saw it all on the little TV, you whore,' he said. He'd been watching the CCTV monitor installed in the corner of the piano room."

Joe pauses again. He doesn't want to remember.

"He dragged her to the piano bench, pulling her by the hair, and shoved her down in front of the keys. He yelled at her to play their song; if she really loved him, she'd play their song. She was crying and trying to find the right keys but she kept making mistakes."

Joe's voice cracks with emotion and he feels tears building in his eyes.

"Spencer grabbed the keyboard cover on the piano and slammed it down as hard as he could on her hands," Joe sobs, closing his eyes against the memory, tears leaking out. "It made the most horrible sound. I'll never forget it. And Stirling is screaming in pain. He starts hitting her and punching her across the face. And she's screaming and screaming."

Joe can't stand to think about it any more; the agony behind those screams. His shoulders start shaking.

"Do you need a break, Joe?" asks Dr. Ellingham.

Joe clears his throat, wiping his face with a tissue the nurse hands him.

"No. No. I'm okay," Joe says, taking a deep calming breath.

"Stirling fell to the floor and he kicked her several times. I remember I was struggling to stand up and braced myself against the kitchen table. When I was upright, I grabbed one of the kitchen chairs with my left hand and slammed it down as hard as I could on Spencer's head and shoulders. But it didn't even hurt him. He turned around and pulled something out of his trouser waistband. He slashed out with it and cut me across the stomach with a knife."

Everyone in the room is quiet, listening in horror.

"I went down hard, clutching my stomach. When I looked up, he had knelt down beside me."

"He whispered to me: 'I told you I was going to make you suffer, wanker.'"

"He took the knife and sliced off the buttons of my uniform. Then he cut at the material. He ripped open the sleeves and sliced the knife up my right arm. I think I screamed."

"'Now you can bleed out like the pig you are,' he said and did the same thing to my left arm."

"There was blood everywhere. God, it hurt so badly. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, he was standing above me. He started kicking me but I couldn't feel anything anymore. And he started yelling how he was going to kill us both."

Joe shudders, wiping at his eyes with a tissue. He takes a sip of water.

"Then Stirling hit him in the back of the head with the butt end of the rifle. I don't know how she did it. Her fingers were crushed and mangled. But she hit him and he went to his knees. She tried to hit him again but the gun slipped out of her hands. Her face was so swollen, she couldn't see and there was blood running in her eyes."

Joe stops, overcome by the memory. He knows she was petrified. He was petrified. But she fought back so hard. He pauses until he's back under control.

"He turned on her with the knife and she fell backwards, screaming. He grabbed the rifle and beat her over the head with it, calling her all kinds of horrible names. And then she went silent. I must have still been yelling or screaming because he hit me a couple of times and it went dark."

Joe takes another few sips of water, trying to control his shaking. It doesn't help.

"Something woke me up. I don't know what. There was a loud noise, it was like thunder. I opened my eyes and see Spencer sitting on top of Stirling. He had the knife and I see, I see ... he was cutting her. He had cut the front of her dress open and he was cutting into her. And the whole time he's talking to her. 'I'll cut you just like your wanker pig. Whores deserve to die. I always knew you were cheating on me, undermining me. Bleed, bitch, bleed.'"

Joe has to stop again.

"I tried to get to her. I tried to crawl but my feet kept slipping on the floor. I couldn't get any traction. There was blood everywhere. I heard the noise again and a loud cracking. Then a huge dark shape jumped over me and landed on Spencer, knocking him off Stirling. I could hear screaming and the black thing made these snarling noises. It had him by the throat."

"That's when I realized it was Bucephalus. He'd broken out of the consulting room somehow. And he was attacking Spencer, who was flailing with his arms trying to get the dog off. He still had the knife. He stabbed Buce several times but the dog just wouldn't let go. He eventually collapsed on top of Spencer, who was wheezing and gurgling. I thought I could hear someone shouting in the distance, like it was through a tunnel. And then it became really dark and quiet."

Joe pauses again, tears dripping off his face.

"That's all I remember."


	25. Chapter 24

Dr. Ellingham has finished re-tightening Joe's sutures and sits beside the bed, grey-faced and somber. The nurse who assisted him is crying openly. DCI McDonald looks pallid and completely knackered.

They all sit there silently for a moment.

"I got there first," says Dr. Ellingham quietly. "I thought you were all dead."

His voice breaks and Joe looks up at the normally stoic, grumpy Doc and sees a man in emotional pain. Tears have welled in his eyes and he's shaking slightly.

"I can honestly say it was the worst experience of my medical career to date."

"I couldn't save the dog," he adds quietly. "I tried to but his wounds were too extensive."

DCI McDonald stands up.

"I'm going to type your report up and bring it in for you to read and sign," he says to Joe. "The Independent Police Complaints Commission will take it from there."

Joe looks aghast.

"The IPCC!"

"All death or serious injury matters have to be referred to the IPCC," says DCI McDonald. "You know that PC Penhale."

Joe looks defeated.

"It doesn't matter," he says quietly. "All that matters is Stirling getting better. I want to see her," he adds, turning to Dr. Ellingham.

"Maybe tomorrow."

"No, now," says Joe, throwing off his covers and moving to get out of bed. He flinches from the pain but he doesn't stop.

Dr. Ellingham quickly inserts a syringe into Joe's IV port.

Joe never makes it out of his bed. The nurse carefully eases him back onto his pillow and covers him up.

"He should be good until morning," the doctor tells her. "But keep an eye on him. He's becoming quite stubborn when it comes to Dr. Aylesworth."

He turns to DCI McDonald.

"What's this IP-whatever nonsense?" he asks.

"The IPCC is an independent organization that handles all complaints dealing with the police in England and Wales," DCI McDonald explains. "Police forces must refer all serious incidents, such as when someone dies or is seriously injured in police custody or after having been in contact with the police, to the IPCC. It's then up to the commission whether they investigate the incident, help the local police force investigate it or just let the local force deal with it themselves. "

"What do you think will happen in this case?" the doctor asks.

"I have no idea," admits the DCI. "I know CI Manning wants to string up our police constable here," he adds, referring to Joe. "Personally, I think the poor fellow deserves a medal."

Dr. Ellingham grunts.

* * *

The next morning, right after breakfast, Joe disappears.

At first, the nurse thinks he might have gone to the loo. But she remembers he still has a catheter in place. The IV pole, complete with IV and waste bags, is missing as well.

_Maybe he's gone to the entertainment area_, she thinks.

But he's not there either and the more the nurse thinks about it, the more certain she is that her patient is not to be out of his bed at all.

With a trembling hand, she pages Dr. Ellingham.

"What?" he barks when he arrives.

"He's gone," she says with a quavering voice.

"Who's gone?"

"Your patient, the police constable. I can't find him anywhere."

"What!"

He rushes to the hospital room. The bed is empty and drops of blood spot the floor beside it.

"Did you think about following the blood trail caused by my sutures being ripped out?" Dr. Ellingham shouts. "I told you to keep an eye on him."

The doctor turns on his heel and marches down the hall. He knows where the idiot has gone.

Urgent Care seems strangely void of activity when he arrives although he can hear machines alarming throughout the ward. He notices a group of nurses crowded into a private room at the far end of the hall. An older nurse sits at the central station, shaking her head in disgust.

"What the hell is going on here?" he demands.

"Don't you know?," she says sharply, obviously angry. "It's 11 o'clock in the morning. Time for the new soap opera."

She nods toward the far room.

"Nobody in administration has bothered to wonder why a coma patient who's been here for three months suddenly needs a TV rental," she snarls. "That lot set it up to watch the soaps."

Dr. Ellingham is enraged.

"This place is ringing like a casino," he says.

"I know, I know, I'm about to do the rounds," the elderly nurse says, getting to her feet. "Someone has to care for the patients during the next hour."

As she starts at the far end of the ward, Dr. Ellingham marches to Stirling's curtained-off cubicle. There he finds Joe, sound asleep, in a guest chair by her bed, his head resting beside her arm on the mattress. Blood stains the front of his hospital gown.

"You stupid git," Dr. Ellingham mutters, before marching down to the crowded private room.

"What do you people think you're doing?" he demands as he stands in the doorway.

Half a dozen nurses sit about, some perching on the side of a bed also occupied by an elderly man, who is obviously comatose. Two others sit in guest chairs while another nurse rests on the windowsill. No eyes move from the TV screen.

"Shhhh," a red-head says. "We're watching our soap."

"No you're not," says Dr. Ellingham, ripping the cord out of the wall. He grabs a pair of scissors from an equipment cart in the hall and cuts the plug end off. "Show's over! Get to work."

A chorus of shouts of outrage and gasps of shock follow him down the hall as he strides back to Stirling's cubicle.

"Penhale!" he says, giving Joe a shake. "Penhale, wake up."

The red-headed nurse marches into the curtained area, hot in pursuit of Dr. Ellingham.

"Who do you think you are?" she shouts, hands on hips and spitting mad.

"I am this woman's doctor," he says, pointing to Stirling. "And I'm this man's doctor," he adds, pointing at a groggy Joe. "Did you know he was in here?"

She stares at Joe in amazement.

"No," she admits.

"Did any nurse in this department know they had a missing patient hiding out in here for the past two hours?" he shouts. "Has anyone checked on this patient in the past two hours?" he asks, pointing at Stirling.

A group of nurses has formed around the cubical opening. No one says a word.

"Do any of you understand the concept of patient care?" he shouts. "Besides Florence Nightingale over there," he adds, pointing to the elderly nurse busy changing IV bags.

Silence.

"Okay," Dr. Ellingham says, seizing a wheelchair and rolling it beside Joe. "Come on, Penhale. Back to your own room."

As he helps a still confused Joe into the chair, he turns to the assembled nurses.

"This afternoon, you will have one less patient to not worry or care about. I'll be transferring my patient out of this department."

"You can't just take a patient out of Urgent Care," one of the nurses protests.

"Watch me."

He quickly wheels Joe back to his hospital room and buzzes the nurse. She looks relieved when she sees her missing patient.

"You found him!"

"Yes, now help me get him into bed," he says.

The pair manages to get Joe back into the hospital bed and Dr. Ellingham lifts his hospital gown and removes the blood soaked gauze.

"Again!" he shouts. "You're supposed to stay in the bed until it heals, you idiot, not run all over the hospital!"

"I wanted to see Stirling," Joe says stubbornly.

"I'm going to have to re-tighten the sutures," he explains to the nurse, who fetches the necessary tools.

"Better give him his pain meds now," he adds, threading a needle. "The mood I'm in at the moment, this is going to hurt."

As Dr. Ellingham repairs the damage caused by Joe's hospital hike, he informs the nurse she is getting a new patient in the afternoon.

"But there's no room," she says, surprised.

"You're going to make room, in here," he explains. "She's coming over from Urgent Care."

"You want me to put a female patient in with a male patient?" the nurse asks, shocked.

"They know each other," he says, tightening another suture. "And I'm getting really tired of redoing these sutures. Maybe if she's in the same room with him, he'll stay put!"

Joe gasps in pain as Dr. Ellingham jabs the needle in for the next suture. About five minutes later, the procedure is done. The doctor redresses the wound and orders the nurse to get Joe a new hospital gown. While she grabs the fresh linens, Dr. Ellingham checks the sutures on Joe's arms.

"These aren't bad," he says. "But the stomach one is going to infect. It's been fussed with too many times. I'll prescribe a cream for the nurse to apply twice a day. You're already on a course of antibiotics."

He backs away from the bed as the nurse takes over, changing the bed linen and redressing Joe in a fresh gown.

"Now stay put!" he yells, pointing at Joe. "You win! She'll be here in the afternoon."

"Thanks Doc," Joe says.

Dr. Ellingham just grunts as he leaves the room.

* * *

Stirling arrives that afternoon, just as Dr. Ellingham had said. Joe's nurse has been busy since lunch rearranging his room to accommodate the extra bed. So when the orderly wheels her in, they are prepared for her.

Her face is still swollen and bruised from the beating she's taken, her lips split in several places, both eyes blackened, her cheeks bruised in the pattern of knuckles. She isn't wearing a hospital gown to allow easier access to the wounds on her sides and stomach. Instead, she is covered with several cotton sheets, padding placed under her armpits to keep her skin from rubbing against the bandages. Her hands and fingers are haunting to look at, swollen and bruised and wired in place. Each finger is splinted, except the thumbs that escaped damage. Dr. Ellingham said the surgery had taken hours to reset each crushed finger. Each hand and its fingers have been set in a kind of cast with wires to keep the digits immobile while they heal. Joe can't see her stomach wound but he sees the bulge were gauze has been put to protect the sutures.

It makes Joe's heart ache to see her this way but he knows the physical wounds will heal. He isn't sure how much damage has been done to the Stirling he knows on the inside.

Joe insists the nurse put their beds side-by-side, something she finds "highly irregular."

"I want to be able to touch her arm," he explains, shifting his body closer to Stirling so he can do just that. Her skin is dry and warm. "Touch is helpful for people who are unconscious, isn't it?" he asks.

The nurse smiles.

"Yes. So is talking or reading to them," she explains.

Joe soon has every volunteer in the hospital gathering reading material for him - books, magazines, newspapers - anything they can find. Later that afternoon, he asks Dr. Ellingham if he can bring some books from Stirling's bookshelves.

"The police still have the surgery sealed," he says. "No one can get in."

"What about the patients?" Joe asks.

"We've been limping by," the doctor explains, taking Stirling's vitals. "Any emergencies are being directed to the hospital or the Wadebridge clinic. I've been seeing some patients in the evenings at my home. Mrs. Tishell has been giving extensions on necessary prescriptions."

Joe watches him examine Stirling.

"She's an important part of the community," he says. "She has to get better."

Dr. Ellingham is quiet for a moment and turns to Joe.

"You should see the complete imbecile they have doing your job," he says. "I think he's 12. He gave Ruth three parking tickets yesterday."

Joe laughs and then clutches his chest and stomach at the pain.

"The people of Portwenn have been thrown completely off balance by this," says the doctor, recording Stirling's blood pressure. "It's like the village has been violated. The quicker you both get well and back there, the better."

That evening, Joe starts his reading program. He decides to start with a fashion magazine but two pages in realizes Stirling would hate the subject matter. Instead, he reads her that day's newspaper, skipping over any articles referring to the incident in Portwenn.

The night nurse, who has been informed of the unorthodox room arrangement, smiles when she enters the room in the middle of the night and sees one of Joe's bandaged arms stretched between the beds, his hand resting lightly on Stirling's arm. He is sound asleep.

The next morning after breakfast, he begins a new day of story time with a book of poems a teenage volunteer had found in the surgery waiting room.

"It's called _Sonnets from the Portuguese_ by Elizabeth Barrett Browning," he reads out loud to Stirling, who the nurse is giving a sponge bath. "I hope it's not actually in Portuguese or this is going to be a short book."

The nurse laughs.

"They're love poems," she says, looking over at Joe. "Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote them to her husband, Robert Browning. They were both famous British poets. You would have learned about them in school."

"Actually, I think I remember a couple questions about them from a pub quiz," he says.

"Number 43 is the most famous," the nurse says.

Joe flips through the book until he finds the poem entitled Number 43. He recites:

_How do I love thee? Let me count the ways._

_I love thee to the depth and breadth and height_

_My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight_

_For the ends of Being and ideal Grace._

_I love thee to the level of everyday's_

_Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight._

_I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;_

_I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise._

_I love thee with the passion put to use_

_In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith._

_I love thee with a love I seemed to lose_

_With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,_

_Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose,_

_I shall but love thee better after death._

"That is beautiful," he says, reaching over and touching Stirling's freshly bathed arm. "And fitting for such a beautiful woman."

The nurse smiles again, tucking the blankets around Stirling.

"She's a lucky lady to have such a charming man as yourself to read her such lovely poems. I know she can hear you."

"I hope so," whispers Joe as the nurse walks out.


	26. Chapter 25

Stirling hears a voice; it's a friendly-sounding voice with a musical lilt to it. She can't really understand what it's saying but the sound is pleasant, soothing. She feels so tired and her body aches terribly but she wants to open her eyes. It seems so bright.

The voice sings on. She smiles. What a lovely sound.

The voice is silent. She frowns.

_Where did it go?_ she wonders. Why can't she hear it anymore?

_Come back_, she wishes.

The voice begins again. She relaxes, turns toward it, smiles.

"Stirling? Stirling? Can you hear me Stirling?"

The voice knows her name!

She tries to open her eyes again but the brightness is too much. She tries to cover her eyes but her hand won't move. And the pain! Her fingers won't move either. She moves her head again, which hurts badly enough.

"Stirling!"

She can feel someone touching her arm. It feels wonderful, warm, and tender.

_Don't let go_, she wills.

She tries her eyes again, opening them just a slit. Blinding light! She blinks a few times to clear the tears. She opens her eyes a bit more. The room is very white. The ceiling is covered in little black dots.

She moves her eyes to her arm. A hand is there, lightly holding her. It has a plaster on the back of it covering a wound. It's a man's hand. She follows the hand up the wrist to the arm, which is covered in white gauze and tape. After the arm is a shoulder, bulky with more bandages but covered in a grey short-sleeved shirt. A neck is next to the shoulder and on top of the neck is a head. Short, dark hair, dark eyes, bruising, a split lip, a cut on the right cheek. Even with the damage, the face looks familiar, handsome. She opens her mouth to speak but her mouth is so dry, her lips chapped. She manages to whisper: "Joe."

He bends over her, his lips touching hers gently.

"Stirling! You're finally awake."

She can hear a buzzing noise and then a woman's voice.

"Page Dr. Ellingham," says Joe, "She's awake."

Stirling licks her lips and whispers again.

"Water."

She feels a straw against her lips and she sucks in cold ice water.

_Heavenly_, she thinks.

She drinks some more and feels the cold goodness spreading through her body.

She sighs.

"Joe, where am I?"

"The hospital in Truro," he answers.

"I can't move my arms or my hands," she says.

"Don't worry," he says, stroking her head. "The Doc will explain everything. Don't try to move; just relax."

She hears rapid footsteps in the distance. She opens her eyes just a little and a tall, large form enters the room.

"Stirling?" asks a deep commanding voice.

"Chief," she answers.

She feels a hand on her wrist checking her pulse. A blood pressure cuff tightens and loosens on her arm.

She hears him grunt.

"Can you open your eyes more?" he asks.

"It's too bright," she says.

The lights in the room click off.

"Try now."

She opens her eyes slowly and looks around in the dim light. Joe hasn't moved, he's right beside her. The Chief is on the other side of her bed watching her closely. A nurse stands by the doorway.

Her eyes move back to Joe.

"You look bloody awful," she says, her eyes filling with tears.

He smiles.

"You look wonderful," he says.

Dr. Ellingham grunts.

"Actually, you both look horrible but that's not important," he says. "How do you feel?" he asks Stirling.

"My stomach really hurts," she says. "I can't move my arms or feel my fingers. My head hurts and I have a sharp pain in my chest when I breathe. And both my sides hurt, right by my breasts."

"On a scale of one to 10, how badly does your head hurt?" the doctor asks.

"A five."

"Does anything hurt worse?"

"My stomach."

He lifts the blankets on her bed and tenderly unsticks the gauze to check her wound.

"It's a bit red and inflamed but no puss. It's not infected."

Stirling realizes she's naked. She looks at Joe and the Doc but neither one seems to notice. The blankets are placed gently back over her.

"Do you know where you are?" Dr. Ellingham asks.

"Joe says I'm at the hospital in Truro."

"Do you know how you ended up being here? Do you remember what happened?"

Stirling thinks for a moment.

"No," she says softly.

"What's the last thing you remember?" the doctor asks.

Her head hurts so badly but Stirling tries her best to concentrate.

"Joe is picking me up at the surgery," she says quietly, her eyes closed. "We're going to the Policemen's Ball."

She opens her eyes.

"That's all I can remember."

Dr. Ellingham nods his head.

"The memories will come back. The mind has a way of protecting itself. For now, we're going to work on getting you physically better."

Stirling looks over at Joe and his bruised face, split lip, cut cheek and bandages.

"Do I look as bad as he does?" she asks.

"Worse," says the doctor.

She pales and looks down at the parts of her body she can see. It's her hands and fingers she notices first. She's horrified. Every finger is splinted and wired. She can't move them, she can't bend them, and her hands are so bruised and swollen, they are unrecognizable. They resemble slabs of meat.

She looks at Dr. Ellingham and a tear runs down her face.

"My fingers are broken?"

He nods his head.

"What else?"

"You have three broken ribs, a cracked skull, 60 stitches plus staples across your stomach, 35 stitches in your right side, 40 stitches in your left side, 45 stitches in your right arm, 45 stitches in your left arm."

Stirling sits on the bed quietly in a state of shock.

_What the hell happened?_ she thinks.

"What's the prognosis on the fingers?" she asks.

"It's going to take time but if you work hard on the physical therapy, you should be able to get full movement back."

Stirling looks at him doubtfully.

"I had the best surgeon in orthopaedics in the UK come and assess the breakage. She did the operation while I assisted. That's her handiwork you're looking at."

Stirling looks at her hands and fingers again.

"In my opinion, she performed a miracle," says Dr. Ellingham.

"What happened to me?" she asks, a few more tears trickling down her face. "What happened to us?" she asks looking at Joe

"You really can't remember anything?" he asks, wiping away her tears with his thumb.

"No," she says with a sob.

"I think that's enough for tonight," says Dr. Ellingham, giving Joe a warning look. "I'll have Ruth drop by tomorrow for a visit."

"You think I need a psychiatrist?" Stirling asks in alarm.

"No, I think you need some rest," says Dr. Ellingham, pointing Joe back to his own bed. "Just relax and try not to worry about anything."

_Hilarious_, she thinks.

After the doctor steps outside to talk with the nurse, Stirling looks over at Joe in his hospital bed.

"Why are you sleeping in my room?" she asks.

Joe laughs.

"Well, actually, you're sleeping in my room. It was the Doc's idea. I kept wandering away to be with you. He thought it would be better for my stitches if we were kept together."

Stirling stares at him.

"You kept wandering away to be with me?"

"I was worried about you," says Joe in a serious tone. "I didn't want you to wake up alone."

She lies back against her pillow and stares at the ceiling.

"Thank you, Joe."

"For what?"

"Making sure I didn't wake up alone."

* * *

It's the middle of the night. At least Stirling thinks it is. Something feels wrong. She can hear whispering but she doesn't know where it's coming from. She holds her breath so she can hear what the voice is saying.

"Ling-Ling's a whore," the whispering voice says in a sing-song way. "Ling-Ling's a whore."

Now she hears footsteps coming down the hall. She's very, very scared. She has to run. A form appears before her and someone grabs her arm. She screams and screams.

Suddenly, she's blinded by light.

"Stirling," says a soothing voice. "Stirling. It's okay. It's okay. Calm down. It was a dream."

She's lying in her hospital bed and Joe is beside her, with his hand on her arm. He's smoothing her hair back from her face, which is drenched in sweat. Actually, she's completely soaked in sweat.

"There is someone in the hall," she says in a shrill voice. "Someone is running down the hall. They are coming to get me. I can hear them whispering."

"It's okay," says Joe softly. "No one is there. It was a dream."

She looks at him wildly.

"No, I heard someone whispering."

"Stirling, you were screaming in your sleep. You woke me up. I turned on the light. There was no one here. I promise."

Joe cradles her head against his chest, his arms stinging from the effort placed on his stitches. But he has to calm her somehow.

The night nurse comes in with a syringe.

"She just had a nightmare, that's all," he says. "Don't drug her."

But the nurse injects the medicine into Stirling's IV port and she's soon asleep in his arms. He sets her head gently down on her pillow.

"She needs her sleep," says the nurse, walking to the door and shutting off the light. "And you do too. Get back in your bed."

Joe lies down in his bed and reaches over, setting his hand gently on Stirling's elbow.

* * *

As the days pass, Joe and Stirling slowly heal physically.

His progress is quicker. Two weeks after the attack, Joe's stomach stitches are removed and he's walking freely around the ward, no catheter, no IV. He's also back to eating solid food.

Stirling's progress is a bit slower. Her stitches heal as well but she's unsteady on her feet, her hands and fingers keeping her off balance. Dr. Ellingham tries a different method of bandaging them and she's soon travelling better. She too no longer needs a catheter and IV and is eating solid foods but, with two incapacitated hands, she finds the washroom a challenge. She refuses to let Joe help her, instead relying on the nurse, which she finds humiliating enough.

But both have a long way to go with their emotional healing. It's Ruth who finally explains to Stirling what happened that night and, while she has some fuzzy memories, Stirling is still not able to recall everything that occurred.

She cries for hours when told of Bucephalus' death. Joe tries his best but she is completely inconsolable. Ruth tells him to leave her be.

"Let her work out her own grief," she says. "You can't do everything for her."

Stirling's nightmares also continue, a regular nightly occurrence. It's Joe who holds her and reassures her, eventually soothing her back to sleep.

Joe's emotional issues are more subtle and really don't start to appear until several weeks later. He's ecstatic when, after three weeks of healing, Dr. Ellingham finally removes the stitches in his arms. Stirling watches the procedure, longing to assist but being unable to do anything with her hands.

"You still have some work to do on that shoulder," says Dr. Ellingham, removing the final suture. "But I believe you can go home."

The news is welcome to Joe who has grown very tired of the hospital and its terrible food.

"What about Stirling?" he asks.

"She'll be right behind you," the doctor says. "But you're going to need homecare until those fingers heal more," he explains to Stirling.

"But I can go home soon?" she says.

"As soon as I take those stomach staples out, which I expect to do in two days time.

He turns to Joe.

"You can go home today."

Joe is instantly apprehensive.

"But who's going to take care of Stirling?"

Dr. Ellingham gives him a strange look.

"Joe, this is a hospital filled with doctors and nursing staff. We'll take care of Stirling."

That afternoon, Dr. Ellingham loads Joe into a cab and sends him home to Portwenn. During the 70-minute drive, he frets and worries about Stirling and who will be there to comfort her when she has her next nightmare. By the time the cabbie drops him off in front of the police station, he's worked himself into an agitated state.

He finds his temporary replacement inside doing paperwork.

"Welcome back, PC Penhale," the young constable says with enthusiasm. "It's good to see you up and about again."

Joe ignores him and marches immediately to the station telephone to contact Dr. Ellingham.

The Doc is not pleased to hear from him.

"The medical staff of this hospital is perfectly capable of caring for Dr. Aylesworth, Penhale," he snaps over the phone. "You stick to ticketing illegally parked cars."

Dr. Ellingham hangs up.


	27. Chapter 26

Joe doesn't know what to do. The house has already been cleaned by some helpful soul so he can't keep himself busy with that. His clothing has even been laundered and put away.

"Some village women came and took over the apartment one day," the young constable, who introduces himself as PC Arthur Garrett, explains. "I wish they'd come to my place."

Joe looks over at the young officer, trying to remember when he was ever that young and green.

_The Doc's right,_ he thinks. _He does look like he's 12. He's still got spots for god's sake_.

"Where are you normally stationed, PC Garrett?"

The young constable looks wistfully out the window.

"Bude," he says with a sigh. "I really miss my bird, Juliet."

Joe gives him a once over.

_This guy has a girlfriend?_ he wonders.

"Your girl's name is Juliet?" he asks.

"No, my bird's name is Juliet," the young man says, shaking his head. "She's a canary."

_What a complete idiot_, thinks Joe, eerily echoing the same sentiments as the Doc.

Unable to stand another minute with the rookie, he leaves the station and aimlessly wanders his apartment, opening cupboards and closing them again. He's restless. He needs something to do.

Even though he's not officially back on duty and probably won't be for some time, Joe decides he'll walk the beat. He puts on his newly cleaned and pressed uniform shirt, trousers and tie and clicks on his duty belt. He looks at the fresh, angry-looking scars on his arms and decides it might be best to change from the short-sleeved shirt into a long-sleeved one. He doesn't want to alarm the locals too much.

Joe eases on the new shirt, careful of the bandages on the back of his right shoulder. The gunshot wound has been aching since his arrival home. He buttons up the shirt front and puts on his tie, tucking the new shirt into his uniform pants. He looks at himself in the mirror. It's been awhile since he was in uniform. It feels comfortable, like putting on a favourite pullover.

He clops downstairs in his shiny black uniform shoes and enters the station side of the building.

"I'm going to walk the beat," he says as he passes the open office door and PC Garrett.

"But you're on medical leave," the young constable says, scrambling up from the desk. But Joe is already out the door.

He stands on the front stoop and looks at the familiar beach view across the road. He takes a deep breath of the sea air.

_It is good to be home,_ he thinks. But he knows he won't fully relax until Stirling is back in Portwenn as well.

Joe decides to check out the surgery and starts walking up the hill toward the village. He makes it about 20 feet from the station before the trembling starts and the cold sweats. His breath comes in gasps as his heart pounds in his ears. He feels a panic attack coming.

The agoraphobia is back.

He manages to shuffle to a nearby park bench and sits down, closing his eyes and working through the relaxation exercises the therapist had provided for him all those years ago. He knows he can't go back inside the station; that would just reinforce the phobia.

It takes him 15 minutes to become calm enough to continue down the street. As he gets further into Portwenn, he begins to meet more people. They stare, surprised to see him out walking the beat so soon. A few call out greetings to him, welcoming him back.

Joe makes it as far as the primary school before the second attack hits him. He leans against the boundary fence, trying to work through the different calming techniques.

"Joe, is that you? I didn't know you were out of the hospital," says Louisa as she opens the gate in the fence. She's just leaving the school for her walk home. "Are you okay?"

"I'll be fine in a minute," he says, wiping the sweat from his face.

"When did you get home?" she asks.

Joe looks at his watch.

"About two hours ago."

Louisa looks at him with concern. His face his flushed, his breathing laboured and sweat is dripping down his face.

"Are you sure you should be out walking this soon?" she asks. "Why are you in uniform? Aren't you on sick leave?"

Joe shuts his eyes and leans back against the fence, trying to think calming, peaceful thoughts.

"I didn't know what else to do," he says. "I couldn't just sit at home."

"You look very pale and sweaty. Are you sure you don't have a fever?"

"No, I'm just having a panic attack."

Now Louisa is very concerned.

"What can I do?"

"I'll be fine in a moment," says Joe. "I just have to work through it."

A car drives by the pair and comes to a squealing stop. The driver's side window comes down and Ruth looks out at the pair of them, her eyes wide at the sight of Joe.

"What are you doing out of hospital?" she yells out her open window.

"The Doc said I was well enough to go home," says Joe, wiping more sweat from his face.

"You don't look well," says Ruth, getting out of her car.

"I'm fine," says Joe crossly, beginning to feel overwhelmed by all the fuss and concern. "It's just a little panic attack."

"When did it start?" she asks.

"Which one?"

"You've had more than one?"

"I had my first one not long after leaving the police station. This is my second."

"Alright, I think it's time you went home," says Ruth, taking his arm.

"No," says Joe, pulling back. "I can't give in to it."

"You let me worry about that," she says, opening her passenger side door and practically shoving him in.

"I'll take care of him," she says to Louisa as she slams the car door and moves to the driver's side.

Louisa watches as Ruth turns the vehicle around and drives back up the hill. Once the car is out of sight, she continues on her way home, shaking her head with concern.

* * *

What took Joe 30 minutes to walk takes Ruth about five to drive and she is soon pulling into the police station parking area. She climbs out and walks over to the passenger side as Joe slowly exits the vehicle.

"I need your keys," she says, holding out her hand.

He unclips his key ring from his belt and hands it to Ruth, who unlocks the front door of his apartment and helps him inside. Once through the door, Joe feels relief wash over him as his heart beat starts to regulate and his breathing slows.

He removes his duty belt and hangs it on a hook just inside the door before moving into the kitchen and sitting at the table.

"I'll get you a glass of water," Ruth says, opening a few cupboard doors before she finds the tumblers. She lets the tap run for a minute, making sure the water is cool before filling the glass and handing it to Joe. He takes a big gulp, enjoying the feel of the cold liquid racing down his throat.

"So my surgeon nephew sprung you without considering the psychological ramifications of you returning to the village; to the scene of the crime so to speak," she says, settling onto a chair across from him. "Typical."

"You've experienced these symptoms before?" she asks.

Joe takes another mouthful of water before answering.

"Yes. Not long after my wife left me, I started having these episodes where I was afraid to leave the station or my vehicle. I would have a string of good days and suddenly there would be a few bad ones. Of course, after I was transferred to Portwenn, the Doc noticed there was something up right away. He referred me to a therapist, who taught me some breathing and relaxation techniques. We also did some kind of mind therapy."

"Cognitive behaviour therapy?" Ruth asks.

"Yeah, that's what it was called," Joe says, nodding his head. "I worked at it pretty hard and within a month or two, I had the attacks under control. I could walk the beat, drive the countryside, with no problems."

He slams his elbows on the table, flinching from the pain to his scarred arms, and holds his head in his hands.

"And now it's back," he says, sounding defeated.

"This is just a small set back," says Ruth, leaning across the table and patting one of his arms. "You've been through a traumatic experience. So has Dr. Aylesworth. There's bound to be some emotional repercussions. We can work through them."

Joe looks up hopefully.

"You'll help me?"

Ruth smiles.

"Count on it."

Ruth spends the rest of the afternoon and part of the evening talking with Joe about his version of the events of May 5 and 6, the evening he and Stirling enjoyed at the Policemen's Ball and along the cliff top outside of Portwenn. She asks how he felt when he realized he and Stirling were in danger in the surgery, about the fear and pain he felt as he was attacked by Spencer Graham. Most difficult of all is answering her questions about Stirling, how he felt listening to her scream in pain, watching her try to avert Spencer's attention toward herself and away from him.

"I feel such guilt," he says quietly, feeling tears drip down his face. "I knew there was something wrong. As soon as she turned that door knob and it opened, I knew it wasn't right. But I didn't act fast enough, I didn't get her out of there."

"Why do you think you are to blame?" Ruth asks. "Dr. Aylesworth also knew she had locked the door before she left the surgery the evening before. But she didn't react when it opened without being unlocked. She had as much opportunity as you to notice the inconsistencies. Actually, she knew something was wrong as soon as she heard Bucephalus barking. But she went into the surgery anyway, not out. That was her decision. Why are you the only one to blame?"

"Because I'm a police constable," Joe says with frustration. "I'm trained to notice changes, things that are different. And I failed that night. I didn't notice it in time. If I had, maybe it would have turned out differently. Maybe Stirling wouldn't have been so badly injured. Maybe Bucephalus would be alive."

"And maybe you would all be dead," says Ruth quietly. "All we know is what actually occurred. We have no way of knowing what might have happened if you or Dr. Aylesworth had reacted another way, made a different choice."

"The 'what if' game is a dangerous one to play, Joe," she says, sitting back in her chair. "No one ever wins. And guilt is always the end result. You need to come to terms with the decisions you made that night and understand you didn't make them in a vacuum. Dr. Aylesworth made choices that also affected you and what occurred. She also holds some responsibility and will have to consider her actions as well."

She looks over her shoulder with a small twitch of surprise as the door between the station and the apartment opens and PC Garrett enters.

"Oh, it's you," she says with a hint of disgust. "Don't worry, my car is properly parked out front, legally I might add."

The young man blushes and cuts a wide berth around her as he walks toward the cooker.

"Good evening, Dr. Ellingham," he mutters.

Joe looks down at the table and smiles.

"I'm just here for my refreshment break," says PC Garrett, digging through a cupboard in search of something to eat. He manages to find a can of Irish stew and opens the cutlery drawer for the can opener.

"We'll continue our talk tomorrow, Joe," says Ruth, rising from her chair. "For now, try short trips outside, just around the station, before you try anything more strenuous. If there's a problem, use the breathing exercises you were taught. See you tomorrow."

With a quick glare at PC Garrett, Ruth walks out the door.

"She scares me," PC Garrett whispers to Joe after he hears Ruth's car drive away. "She's one of those psycho doctors that talk with serial killers about their childhoods and feelings. And she can't park her car worth a damn."

Joe feels a laugh building in his throat but he chokes it back.

"She's actually a very intelligent woman who knows a lot about human behaviour and playing chess. You know, if you took the time to get to know her, she could probably help you with your bird issue."

He gets up from the table and leaves the kitchen, slowly walking up the stairs and into the loo.

"What bird issue?" asks PC Garrett to an empty room.


	28. Chapter 27

That evening, all hell breaks loose.

After a very long and hot shower, Joe changes into a comfortable pair of jogging pants and an old Devon and Cornwall Police T-shirt. He comes downstairs to find PC Garrett relaxing in the lounge, munching on popping corn and watching a football match on the small telly.

"Who's playing?" Joe asks as he sticks his head through the doorway.

"England against Brazil," says PC Garrett, his eyes never leaving the screen. "Scores tied one all. They're playing in Rio de Janeiro and the best part is they sometimes show footage of the crowd. There are some extremely fit women there. I wonder if they all have Brazilians? You know, Brazilians with Brazilians."

Joe gives the young man a strange look and leaves the lounge, shaking his head.

_Was I ever that vacant?_ he wonders, wandering into the kitchen. His stomach is growling and he decides to make himself a bacon sarnie. He soon has back bacon frying in a pan along with a couple of eggs.

As Joe sits down at the table to eat, PC Garrett wanders in.

"I'm supposed to give you a message from CI Manning," he says, eyeing Joe's sarnies. "He's coming by the station tomorrow to see you. He should be here around 1 in the afternoon"

Suddenly, Joe isn't feeling very hungry anymore.

"When did he call?"

PC Garrett flips through a police notebook he pulls from his back pocket.

"Around 5:30. You were busy with Dr. Ellingham so I decided not to disturb you."

"Thanks," says Joe, feeling a bit peeved as PC Garrett turns around and walks back into the lounge.

Joe doesn't really want to meet with CI Manning. He'd prefer to deal with a different official on the force or, better still, just be left alone to heal. But he knows the visit is inevitable. With a possible IPPC investigation on the horizon, the force will be in full damage control mode. Maybe he should call and get some advice from his local police federation representative.

He looks down at his sarnies and sighs. He takes a bite of one but it tastes like chalk in his mouth. He manages to swallow it down with a big gulp of water before taking his mostly untouched dinner and scraping it into the garbage.

"Damn CI Manning," he thinks, walking back upstairs. "Just the thought of him has put me right off my feed."

He sits in the lounge chair in his bedroom and eyes his mobile, which is sitting on the bedside table. He looks at his watch - 8. Stirling will probably still be up. He fetches the phone and dials her mobile. As soon as he hears her voice, he feels better.

"Hello beautiful," he says. "How are you feeling?"

Stirling's heart leaps at the sound of Joe's voice.

"You know, you've only been gone about five hours but I'm already missing you like crazy," she says. "This place is boring! There's no one to talk to with you gone. This afternoon, I found myself wandering around some of the wards, examining charts and suggesting different courses of treatment. I even took my own vitals and updated my own chart. I don't think Nurse Vicky was too impressed, though."

"You have to hurry up and get better so you can come home," says Joe.

"The Chief still thinks I'll be released in a few days," she says. "How's Portwenn?"

"Still the same. I'm currently sharing my apartment with Devon and Cornwall's youngest police constable. Stirling, he still has spots. And he's pining for his pet canary whose name is, believe it or not, Juliet."

"Is the constable's name Romeo?" she asks with a laugh.

"No, Arthur; PC Arthur Garrett."

Stirling's mind instantly goes back to the night of the Policemen's Ball and the wall of photos until she mentally finds PC Arthur Garrett.

"He's usually stationed in Bude," she says. "He went to the Policemen's Ball alone - poor bloke. Of course, he might have had Juliet secreted away in his pocket. His table was even farther out than the one they assigned us to."

Joe is at a loss for words. It's the first time Stirling has mentioned the Policemen's Ball voluntarily. She usually has to be pushed to talk about anything from that night and even then, her recollection is sketchy.

"You remember that?" he asks quietly.

"Of course," says Stirling with a laugh. "I memorized the photo wall, remember? If there was an officer who had their picture taken that night, I can recall their name, rank, where they are stationed, their spouses' name and what table they were assigned to."

He can hear her laughing but suddenly she goes quiet.

"Stirling?" he says after a moment of silence. "Are you still there? Are you okay?"

He checks to make sure his mobile hasn't dropped the call but he sees it is still connected.

"Stirling?"

"Oh my god!" she exclaims. "I remember! I remember everyone on that wall. I remember dancing with you while you sang that silly song in my ear. I remember resting my head against your shoulder as we drove back to Portwenn. I remember waking up to all of those beautiful stars. I remember kissing you on the bonnet of the Land Rover; how we both fell off. I remember leaning against the back door of the surgery with my legs wrapped around you. Oh my god!"

She's silent for a moment, reliving all of those memories in a heartbeat.

"I remember everything, Joe," she says softly. "Not some version that someone else has told me but my own memories."

"That's wonderful - I think," Joe says. "How do you feel?"

Stirling isn't sure how to describe what she's feeling. She's experienced everything from happiness to sexual arousal to fear, terror and blinding pain in a split second.

"A bit shaky," she says with an unsteady voice.

Joe can hear the emotion behind it.

"There was so much blood, Joe," she whispers, picturing the surgery's kitchen floor in her mind. "You were covered in so much blood."

She starts to cry.

"It's okay Stirling, it's over," says Joe desperately over the mobile. "I'm better. And you'll soon be well enough to come home. It's in the past. You don't have to think about it."

Stirling pictures him grabbing her, pushing her up against the kitchen counter, hugging her close, her flash of annoyance, the sting of pain in her left shoulder and the loud blast. They had fallen together, his arms still wrapped around her, although she could tell he was unconscious. At first, she had thought he was dead.

"You saved my life," she says softly, sniffling.

"And you saved mine," he says. "And Bucephalus saved us both. But it's over now. You don't have to worry about it any more."

As soon as they fell to the floor, Stirling knew they were in trouble. She had struggled to drag Joe under the kitchen table; it was the closest cover she could find.

_Maybe I should have dragged him to the back door instead_, she thinks. _Maybe it would have turned out differently if I hadn't moved further into the surgery. I was only thinking of freeing Bucephalus. I should have remembered I had locked the door before leaving that night. From the moment I turned that door knob, I knew something wasn't right. Why didn't I listen to my instincts? Why did I let go of Joe?_

Suddenly she needs to see him, to talk to him, to touch him. Now.

"I need to see you," she says, an edge to her voice. "Please come and get me out of here, right now. I want to come home and talk with you."

Joe feels a flare of excitement in his stomach.

_Stirling wants to come home with me_, he thinks.

But he quickly realizes this would be a bad idea.

"I think you should wait until the Doc gives you the all clear," he says, his heart sinking in disappointment. "It's only a couple more days."

Stirling feels a flare of annoyance. Joe is using his 'I'm a police constable; I'm the voice of reason' tone.

_Don't patronize me, Joseph Penhale_, she thinks. _No stalling. I need to talk to him right now._

"No," she says adamantly. "I'm signing myself out. And if you don't come and get me, I'm hiring a cab to drive me to Portwenn."

"Give me five minutes, Stirling," Joe says. "I'll call you back in five minutes. Okay?"

There's silence. Stirling knows exactly what he's going to do in those five minutes. He's going to call the Chief, who will call the hospital and quickly have her sedated and locked in her room.

_Not bloody likely_, she thinks, already climbing out of her bed.

"You have five minutes," she says and hangs up the phone.

Stirling has no clothes except the hospital gown she's wearing. But thanks to her restless afternoon of exploring, she knows where to find some. She rolls her blankets into a long sausage shape and pulls another blanket up over it. She shuts off the room lights and examines her creation from the door. It just might work. She opens her door a crack, looks quickly both ways, and quickly squeezes out, shutting the door behind her.

Joe quickly dials the Doc's number.

"Hello, Louisa? It's Joe. Is the Doc there?"

He can hear muttering in the background and then the Doc's voice bellows in the phone.

"What now, Penhale?"

"Stirling says she's going to sign herself out of the hospital. She wants to come home tonight."

"What!"

"I was just talking to her and she had some kind of mental breakthrough. She can remember everything that happened that night. But now she wants to come home - immediately. She says if I don't come and pick her up from the hospital, she'll hire a cab. And you know she'll do it."

There's silence and then a deep sigh.

"Get off the line. I have to call the hospital."

The Doc promptly hangs up on him and Joe pushes the disconnect button on his mobile.

While the Doc is phoning the Truro hospital, Stirling is riding an empty elevator to the main floor. When the doors open, she quickly heads left down the hall. At the second intersection, she turns left again until she reaches an unmarked door. She leans her back against it and slowly pushes it open, looking both ways down the hall as she does so. Once the opening is big enough, she squeezes through.

She listens carefully. She can hear water from a shower and distant singing. But there are no closer sounds. She creeps down a short hallway and through a doorway into a large, brilliantly lit carpeted room. She's in the nurses' locker room. And it's currently empty.

She quickly walks along the lockers, using her unsplinted thumbs to pull on each door until she finds one unlocked. Inside, she discovers street clothes hanging neatly from several hooks. She checks the size labels.

_A bit large but they'll work_, she thinks.

As quickly as she can using splinted and wired fingers, Stirling takes off her hospital smock and pulls on the jeans. Using her thumbs pressed together, she tightens the belt as much as she can to keep the jeans from falling down. The legs are too long so she carefully rolls up the bottom hems with her unbendable digits. The jeans are baggy but serviceable. She quickly shrugs on a short-sleeved shirt also hanging in the locker and fumbles as she buttons up the front. She decides to leave the shirt untucked. She finds some socks in a lost and found basket in the corner and hooks the tops with her thumbs to pull them on. There's also a light anorak in the pile, which she puts on over her baggy shirt, covering the bandages on her arms. She looks at her feet. She digs in the lost and found until she finds a pair of trainers in her size.

_Thank god these nurses are forgetful and lose things_, she thinks as she sits on a bench in the middle of the locker room and tries to tie the shoes. It takes her half a dozen attempts before she finally does it.

She checks her appearance in the full length mirror.

_Not bad_, she thinks, combing through her hair with her splinted fingers. She pulls it back in a pony tail using her thumb and splinted pointer finger and tries to manipulate it into a scrunchy she found on a ledge above the sinks.

She finally gives up after a dozen tries, deciding to pull up the anorak's hood instead.

As she's pulling up the zipper using her two thumbs pressed together, the outer door opens and a nurse enters.

Stirling quickly shoves her hands in the anorak's pockets.

"Thank god that shift's over, eh?" says the woman, starting to unbutton her nurses' uniform as she walks to her padlocked locker further down the line.

"I know," says Stirling. "I had this crotchety old man on the fifth floor. Bugger kept pinching my bum."

The woman laughs as she unlocks her padlock.

"I feel your pain," she says. "It doesn't matter how old they get, men are always trying to grab our boobs or our bums."

"Don't I know it! Well, have a good night," Stirling calls as she walks out the door.

She walks swiftly back through the labyrinth of halls to the main entrance and out the front door of the hospital. No one says a word. She waves down the closest cab and climbs in, her heart beating with excitement.

"How much will you charge me to drive to Portwenn?" she asks the cabbie.

"That's a long drive," he says, considering the question. "And I'm going to be coming home empty."

He's quiet for a moment.

"A hundred pounds," he says.

"Deal."

Stirling leans back against the leather seat and shuts her eyes. Her mobile rings and she looks down at the number display. Joe. She turns it off and closes her eyes again. As she relaxes, she feels the pain flaring in her various wounds. Her fingers, arms and sides hurt from all the activity and her stomach wound is also throbbing. But her head feels okay.

She's looking forward to getting to Portwenn and talking with Joe.

"What do you mean you can't find her?" shouts Dr. Ellingham into the phone.

Louisa waves her arms at him, making shushing sounds.

"James Henry is asleep!" she hisses. "No yelling!"

"Have you looked everywhere on the floor? The washrooms?" he asks in a more reasonable tone of voice.

He sighs as he listens to an obviously upset night nurse.

_Why can't my patients stay where they're supposed to?_ he wonders.

"Okay, go down to the main desk and find out if they have received any reports of a strange patient wandering around or trying to leave the hospital. And call me back."

He hangs up and turns to Louisa, who is standing next to him, concern on her face.

"You know, they're both crazy," he says. "First Penhale, now Dr. Aylesworth. Nurse turns her back for a minute, they disappear."

"You know she's on her way back to Portwenn," says Louisa. "She told Joe that was exactly what she was going to do. They're not going to find her at the hospital. She's already in a cab on her way here."

He walks into the kitchen and looks out the window into the dark garden. He turns around to face Louisa again.

"Why do they never listen to a thing I say?" he asks, frustrated. "I told her to wait a few days, she could go home then. But no. Penhale goes home and five hours later, she disappears. She still has two dozen staples embedded across her stomach. Her fingers are wired and splinted. I just removed the sutures on her arms and sides. What the hell is she thinking?"

Louisa walks up to her husband and hugs him, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

"She's not thinking," she explains as she looks up at him. "Stirling experienced a traumatic event. She's been in the hospital for three weeks. A faithful friend she's had in her life for the past six years is dead. You sent home the one person who experienced almost the same trauma she did. The one person who understands how she feels, the fear, the pain, the guilt."

"The guilt?" he questions.

"Yes, the guilt," says Louisa. "Two people were seriously injured and a man and beloved dog are dead. Of course she feels guilt. So does Joe."

Dr. Ellingham looks down at his wife with a feeling of pride.

"When did you get so smart?" he asks.

Louisa makes a conscious decision not to take what he is obviously meaning as a compliment the wrong way, an action which she admits can sometimes be difficult to accomplish.

"I'm not," she says with a smile. "I just know who to contact to get the answers. I called Ruth earlier this evening to talk about Joe. I found him having a panic attack outside the primary school this afternoon, not two hours after you discharged him. He was in pretty rough shape. Ruth took him home and spent some time with him. He might be healed on the outside, Martin, but he's not on the inside. She told me he's feeling a lot of guilt about what happened that night, about not being able to stop it, about not foreseeing what was going to happen. Ruth says he's playing the 'what if' game with himself, which can be very destructive mentally. She thinks she's going to have to work with Stirling and Joe together to make any kind of breakthrough."

The phone rings in the next room and Dr. Ellingham quickly answers it.

"Yes," he says briskly. "No one has seen her? An obviously injured patient in a hospital gown can just walk out the front door of a hospital without anyone stopping her, is that what you're telling me?"

He's silent for a moment, listening to the voice on the other end.

He grunts.

"Sounds like something Dr. Aylesworth would do. When was this person recorded leaving?"

He glances at his watch.

"Thanks. I'll expect her in 45 minutes."

He hangs up the phone.

"It's obvious the woman is a genius but sometimes she doesn't think her plans all the way through," he says to Louisa. "She didn't consider the closed circuit cameras that film the hospital's main lobby."

"Someone stole some clothing from the nurses' locker room this evening," he explains. "They also found a hospital gown buried in a lost and found container in the room. I think we can both guess who that belonged to. They reviewed the footage recorded around 8:45 and an off-duty nurse was able to point out a woman she had spoken to in the locker room around 8:30. According to the recording, the woman hails a cab, climbs in, talks for a few moments with the driver and then the cab drives away."

"It's exactly as you said, Louisa. She's on her way to Portwenn. And I intend to greet her when she gets here."


	29. Chapter 28

Stirling knows she was filmed leaving the hospital. It's almost impossible to find a public building in England that doesn't have dozens of closed circuit cameras pointing everywhere. But she didn't know any other way of exiting the place without setting off door alarms. The Chief will probably be waiting for her when she gets to Portwenn.

_But where will he be waiting?_ she wonders. _Where will the Chief expect me to go when I get to Portwenn? He'll obviously think it's a toss up between the police station and the surgery. But which one will he pick? _

Stirling decides to take chance out of the equation and do something entirely unexpected. She pulls out her mobile and switches it back on.

* * *

The Doc is half way to the police station when he notices a vehicle driving swiftly toward him, it's lights blindingly bright. It rushes right past him before the driver slams on the brakes, leaving a black line of melted rubber along Portwenn's high street. The vehicle quickly comes toward him again, this time in reverse.

"Dr. Ellingham?" a voice calls from the driver's side window.

"Yes," he says, squinting into the dimly lit vehicle.

"It's PC Garrett," says the young police constable. "I've just received a call about a serious car accident along the cliff road near Polzeath. They require police and medical assistance."

The Doc feels a flare of impatience.

"Can't they just wait for an ambulance?" he barks.

"We're much closer than the nearest ambulance, sir, and there are serious injuries reported. They need help right away."

The Doc looks down the road toward the police station and heaves a sigh of frustration.

"Alright," he mutters, walking around the Land Rover and climbing in the passenger side.

"Do you need to pick up your doctor's bag, sir?"

"No, I brought it with me," he says, pointing to the large black bag he has just set on the floor at his feet.

"OK, hang on," says PC Garrett as he steps on the accelerator and sends the Land Rover squealing down the road, tires smoking.

The Doc quickly scrabbles for his seat belt, silently cursing the young police constable.

"Bloody idiot," he mutters as they roar out of town.

About a minute after the police vehicle races past, a car parked along a side street starts up, its lights turning on.

"OK mystery lady, what do you want me to do now?" asks the cabbie.

"Just follow this road into Portwenn," Stirling says. "I'll tell you when to stop."

Five minutes later, the cab pulls into the parking lot of the police station. Stirling quickly jumps out and leans into the driver side window.

"Just wait here. I'll be back in a minute."

"You're not going to rip me off, are you pretty lady?" the cabbie asks.

"Look," Stirling says, referring to the building behind her. "We're at a police station. I'd be an idiot to try to cheat you here."

The cabbie gives her a suspicious look.

"Okay. But if you're not back in five minutes, I'm coming in after you."

"Understood."

She quickly walks to the front door of the station apartment and pounds on the door using the palm of her hand. A half minute later she pounds harder. Eventually, she starts kicking the door, unable to pound any harder with her splinted hands.

She hears noise from the other side of the door.

"Okay, okay, I'm coming. Don't knock the door in," says Joe, yanking it open.

There's a moment of shocked silence.

"Stirling!" he says.

"I told you I was coming," she says, pushing past him into the apartment. She looks around the kitchen with interest. She's never actually been in Joe's place before, she realizes.

"Stirling!" Joe repeats, wondering how she managed to get out of the hospital without being stopped. Then he notices her strange clothing.

"What on Earth are you wearing?" he asks, staring at her scuffed trainers, her baggy jeans and black anorak.

"I had to borrow some clothes," she says nonchalantly. "Speaking of borrowing, I need 120 pounds."

"What!"

"I need to borrow 120 pounds to pay the cabbie. He wants cash. I'm not sure if he accepts charge cards. I didn't ask him."

"I don't have that kind of money lying around," says Joe. Inadvertently, he thinks of the petty cash box in the police station office.

"Are you sure?" asks Stirling, staring him straight in the eyes.

A few minutes later, he's unlocking the office cash box.

"I can't believe you're making a police constable steal money from his own station's petty cash," Joe says, counting out 120 pounds.

"We're not stealing it, we're borrowing. I'll replace it in the morning."

He hands her the money.

"Thanks," Stirling says, giving him a tender kiss on the lips. She turns and walks into the apartment side of the building, heading for the front door. A stunned Joe watches her as she opens the door, only to come face-to-face with a burly cabbie, fist raised, about to knock.

"Oh," she says, slightly startled. "Sorry for the delay. It took us a little longer than I expected it would to gather up the money."

She hands the cabbie the wad of bills.

"Thanks for your services," she says. "I gave you a little extra for being so accommodating. Have a safe drive home."

She casually slams the door in the shocked cabbie's face and turns the lock.

She turns to find Joe standing directly behind her. He's so close, she almost runs into him.

"What are you doing here?" he asks softly. "I told you to stay in the hospital, to wait for the Doc to clear you before coming home."

"And I told you, I need to talk with you," Stirling says, grabbing one of Joe's hands with her splinted one and leading him into the lounge.

"Well, at least I know why you never answered my calls when I phoned you back," says Joe as she pushes him down onto the chesterfield. "I left five messages, you know."

She grabs the remote off the side table and turns off the telly before turning around to face him.

"I don't have a lot of time so I'm just going to be direct," she says. "I don't blame you."

Joe looks at her, slightly confused.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't blame you," she repeats. "For what happened at the surgery that night with Spencer. For Bucephalus. For everything. I don't blame you. It wasn't your fault."

Joe can feel emotion building up inside him.

_She doesn't know what she's talking about_, he thinks.

He shakes his head.

"It was my fault," he says, looking down at the carpet. "I should have known something was wrong. I'm a police constable. I'm trained to notice thinks that don't add up. And the fact the back door of the surgery opened without needing to be unlocked didn't add up. But I didn't react quickly enough. I was thinking of other things."

"We were both thinking of other things, Joe."

"I knew you would be sitting here blaming yourself," Stirling says, kneeling down in front of him. She reaches out with her splinted fingers and lifts his chin so she can look him in the eye. "As soon as those memories came shooting into my mind, I knew you would be here blaming yourself for everything. Typical Joe - making himself responsible for everything that happens. But you're wrong. You aren't to blame for this."

"I noticed the door wasn't locked as well," she says, tears beginning to track down her cheeks. "I didn't react quick enough either. I was more concerned with my barking dog than with saving myself. Or you. I let go of you. I walked away from you. You could have got out of that building unscathed. You could have turned and walked out the door and never looked back. But you didn't. You reached out and grabbed me. You saved me from Spencer and my own stupidity."

Joe reaches out and tenderly wipes the tears from her cheeks with his thumb.

"You sacrificed yourself for me. I'm to blame for that," she says.

"And I'm to blame for this," she says, touching his bandaged arms.

"And I'm to blame for this," she says, lifting his T-shirt and touching the bandage across his stomach.

"And I'm to blame for this," she says, reaching under the neck of his shirt and touching the bandage on his right shoulder.

"And I'm to blame for this," she says, standing up and lifting his hair so she can kiss the scar along the hairline of his forehead.

Suddenly, Stirling finds herself pressed against Joe's chest, his arms wrapped around her. She hugs him back with a sob, tightening her arms around his body.

"I'm so sorry," she chokes against his shoulder, shutting her eyes tight as the tears pour out. "I'm so sorry."

She feels him shaking under her and realizes Joe is crying also, sobbing onto her shoulder.

Stirling pulls back and cups his face with her damaged hands.

"Shhhh," she whispers. "It's okay. Don't cry."

"I tried so hard," he sobs. "I tried to grab you before you went too far into the room. I saw the gun. I knew he was going to try to shoot you. I did the only thing I could think of to do."

"I know," Stirling whispers, caressing his cheek. "You did everything you could. You're not to blame."

"And neither are you," he chokes out, looking at her defiantly. "So stop blaming yourself. It happened. We both did the best we could with what we had. I saved you. You saved me. And Bucephalus and the quick actions of the Doc saved us both. We're both still here. We made it through. I think we need to put away the guilt and the blame and move forward."

Joe clears his throat, trying to swallow down his overflowing emotions.

"I love you," he says, making Stirling gasp. "I'd go through it all again in a heartbeat to keep you here, here with me."

She wraps her arms around him again, squeezing him close and Joe does the same to her. They stay in that embrace for a long time before she feels him move to kiss her cheek and then her forehead, both her eyes and her nose, her chin and finally her mouth. She kisses him back, tightening her arms around him, moving her hands to the back of his neck, running her fingers through his hair, opening her mouth to him. She feels like she could devour him as he grabs her and pulls her onto his lap.

They're still kissing when they hear the door open between the police station and the apartment.

"Well that was a big waste of time," says PC Garrett, unclipping his duty belt and hanging it on the door knob.

"It certainly was," says the Doc crossly, causing both Stirling and Joe to pull their lips apart in surprise. They stare at one another wide-eyed and then both lean over so they can peek around the corner of the lounge doorway into the kitchen. The Doc is scowling as he sets his doctor's bag down by the apartment's front door. He looks up and makes eye contact with both of them.

"Dr. Aylesworth, I presume," he says sarcastically, stomping into the lounge. "I thought I would eventually find you here."

He turns his angry gaze toward Joe.

"And I see you are busy trying to contact me to let me know she has arrived safely."

Joe opens his mouth and then closes it, uncertain what to say.

PC Garrett walks into the lounge and stares at the pair of them, still cuddling in each others' arms on the chesterfield.

"Bloody hell! Where did she come from? She wasn't here when I left."

"I'm sure she arrived not long after we were called away to our false alarm," the Doc says icily.

Stirling says nothing, raising her chin defiantly.

With as much dignity as she can, she rises from Joe's lap and extends her right hand toward the young police constable.

"We haven't been introduced," she says formally, shaking the startled constable's limp hand. "I'm Dr. Stirling Aylesworth. When I'm not busy recuperating from being shot, stabbed, beaten about the head and having my fingers crushed, I serve as a GP at the Portwenn surgery. It's a pleasure to meet you, PC Garrett."

The poor young man is speechless.

"And when she's not busy stealing other people's clothes so she can sneak out of hospitals and send busy surgeons and police constables on wild goose chases so she can make kissy face with her equally injured boyfriend, Dr. Aylesworth can typically be found in a hospital bed, where she bloody well belongs!" shouts Dr. Ellingham, making everyone else in the room flinch.

"I am not going back to the hospital," Stirling says stubbornly, glaring at the Doc.

"Look at you," he says in frustration. "Your fingers are splinted and wired. You can't even tie your shoes properly."

Stirling looks down and notices that both of her trainers' laces have come undone.

"They were tied when I left the hospital," she says in her defence. "You can check the security footage."

"You also can't even button your blouse properly."

She looks at her blouse front and notices two buttons have come undone and a third has been placed in the wrong hole. She glares over at Joe who shakes his head slightly.

_Damn_, she thinks. _I can't even blame him_.

"You still have about two dozen staples embedded in your stomach and I only removed the sutures from your arm and side wounds about" - the Doc looks quickly at his watch - "seven hours ago."

"And I can see from here that the wound on your upper left shoulder has seeped through the bandages."

She looks down at her blouse and curses the red staining.

"I am still not going back to the hospital," Stirling says, folding her arms across her chest while trying not to flinch from the pain the movement causes.

"Blimey!" says PC Garrett with a hint of excitement in his voice. "This is just like a Mexican standoff."

Both Stirling and Dr. Ellingham look over at the young man who is obviously enjoying the verbal sparring - Stirling with a look of amusement; the Doc with a look of contempt.

"Actually, this is nothing at all like a Mexican standoff, you moron," he snaps. "A Mexican standoff involves three opponents, not two. I'd describe this situation more like a ..."

"Stalemate," says Stirling, knowing he will appreciate the use of the chess term as a metaphor.

The Doc grunts.

No one in the room moves or says a word for several very long seconds.

"I want to see both of you at the surgery at 8:30 sharp tomorrow morning," the Doc says, pointing at both Stirling and Joe.

"You're going to need some form of nursing care until those fingers heal," he adds, looking at Stirling. "We'll arrange that tomorrow. Meanwhile, let me change that dressing so that I can bloody well go home and escape this insane asylum of idiocy and stubbornness!"

Stirling smiles and walks up to the Doc, giving him a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

"Thank you, Chief," she says.

"Yes, well, mrrml," he mutters, clearing his throat. "Let's look at that wound."

He starts unbuttoning her blouse but stops and looks over at Joe and PC Garrett.

"Okay, out you both get," he says, waving his hands at them in a shooing motion. "This isn't a zoo or a sideshow."

PC Garrett practically sprints out the door while Joe slowly stands up from the chesterfield.

"You know, I've already seen..." he says.

"Out!" barks the Doc.

He shrugs at Stirling and walks out the doorway into the kitchen.

It takes the Doc about five minutes to clean and treat Stirling's weeping wound and rebandage it. And he mutters to her the whole time.

"You do know you're insane, don't you?" he growls. "Stealing clothing, sneaking out of hospitals, phoning in false accident reports, refusing to see reason. You're quite possibly the stupidest patient I've ever had that possesses a genius-level IQ."

"Do you get a lot of patients with genius level IQs?" she asks innocently, hissing in pain as he roughly applies antibiotic cream to the wound in what she swears is retaliation.

"And what you see in that idiot, I'll never understand," he mutters, pointing with his chin over her shoulder toward the kitchen area where Joe paces, waiting for him to finish. "His idea of a mental challenge is the weekly pub quiz night at The Crab and Lobster. He's had to set aside word search puzzles because they've stumped him. He probably thinks the London Underground is a terrorist organization."

Stirling laughs.

"You're terrible!" she says. "You know, the more angry and frustrated you get, the funnier you are."

"I don't expect you to understand what I see in Joe," she adds as he applies adhesive to the fresh bandages. "I just expect you to accept it."

"Finished," he grunts, bending over to put away his medical supplies while Stirling struggles to button up her borrowed blouse.

"And now I can finally go back to my home, where normalcy reigns," he says, gazing back at the three of them before he marches out the door.

"Maybe I should give him a ride home?" asks PC Garrett.

"Just leave him be," says Stirling, walking out of the lounge to stand beside Joe. "Don't ruin his fun. There's nothing he enjoys more than a brisk march through the village in the middle of the night, cursing and muttering insults the whole way."

She looks over at Joe.

"And speaking of marching through the village, I should head home," she says, touching his hand.

"No!" Joe practically shouts, flinching at how loud his voice sounds in the kitchen. "No. It's pretty late. You can sleep in my bed."

"Oh really?" she says, giving him a saucy look.

"Not like that! I mean you can have my bed and I'll sleep on the chesterfield."

"Are you sure?" she asks.

"Yeah," he says, touching her cheek. "I'll show you where everything is."

As the pair walk up the stairs, PC Garrett still stands in the kitchen, thinking back over the evening.

"Did Dr. Ellingham actually call me a moron?" he asks the empty room.


	30. Chapter 29

It's dark outside when Stirling is startled awake, gasping as she sits bolt upright in the bed. She gasps again as a wave of pain hits her, caused by the sudden movement of her tender lower stomach.

"Bloody hell!" she curses, touching her belly.

She's not sure where she is at first but then recalls she's at Joe's place, in his bedroom, in his bed. And he's downstairs sleeping in the lounge.

She glances at the alarm clock on the bedside table - 3:24 a.m.

_What the hell am I doing up at this hour?_ she asks herself, rubbing her face with one of her finger-splinted hands.

Suddenly, she hears a noise.

_Was that a scream?_ she wonders, holding her breath so she can listen.

She hears it again.

As quickly as she can with her injuries, she gets out of bed and moves to the door, peeking around the edge into the hallway as she opens it. The noise is coming from downstairs, she realizes as it echoes up the stairs. She tip toes down the hall and softly pads down the steps and into the kitchen. She jumps as an incoherent shout comes from the vicinity of the lounge.

"Joe?" she whispers, walking slowly toward the doorway.

There's another shout and a moan.

"Joe?" she says louder, peeking around the doorway.

He is lying on the chesterfield, most of his blankets in a heap on the floor except for one that has managed to wrap itself around his torso several times. His head is tossing back and forth on his pillow, his legs pumping like he's trying to run. Beads of sweat stand out on his forehead.

"No!" he shouts, making Stirling startle. "Let go!"

"Joe," says Stirling, squatting down beside the chesterfield, reaching out to grab one of his waving hands. "Joe, you're having a nightmare. It's okay, it's just a nightmare."

"Let her go!" he shouts, pulling his hand from her grasp.

"NOOOOO!" he screams so long and loud that Stirling covers her ears in fear. He flails out with his arm and hits her injured shoulder, making her cry out in pain.

"Joe!" she says loudly. "Wake up!"

He's in mid scream when he sits up and opens his eyes, the horrible sound dying away in his throat. He pants hard as he looks wildly around the room, his hair mussed and wild.

"Where am I?" he croaks.

"Joe," Stirling says softly.

He gives a startled cry and jumps, turning to look at her in terror.

"It's okay," she says gently. "It's Stirling. You were having a nightmare. I could hear you yelling from upstairs."

Slowly the fear and wildness fade from Joe's eyes as he looks at her.

"Stirling," he whispers. "You're here. You're okay."

He reaches out and hugs her, holding her close. With her head pressed under his chin, she can hear his heart pounding in his chest.

"There was this man. He had a knife. And you were tied to one of those rotating wheels you see at the circus. You were spinning around and around and he was throwing knives at you. Every few throws, his aim would be off and he'd end up stabbing you through the ear or in the webbing between your fingers or in the skin under your arm. And you would scream."

"Oh my god," he gasps, squeezing her even closer. "I kept telling him to stop but he'd just laugh and laugh, throwing more knives. Soon, the whole spinning wheel was covered in knives except where you were tied. And he lifts this shiny cover off a table beside him and there's a huge pile of even longer, larger knives."

Stirling feels him shudder against her.

"It was a nightmare," she whispers in his ear. "There's no man, there's no spinning wheel, no knives. There's just you and me in the station apartment at Portwenn."

He pulls back and looks at her.

"Was I really that loud?" he asks. "Did I really wake you up?"

"Startled me right out of a deep sleep," she says. "And I was having a wonderful dream too. It was about this handsome police constable who took me out to dinner every night, and bought me expensive gifts using money that grew on this special tree he had in his back garden. We would go on hols every weekend and, twice a year, we would spend a month on our very own tropical island."

"Just twice a year?" Joe asks, smiling. "Sounds like a real wanker."

"I know; I thought that didn't seem like enough island visits either."

He laughs and pulls her close, kissing her.

They're both enjoying a good snog when the room is suddenly illuminated with blinding bright light.

"Can you two keep it down?" asks PC Garrett, standing in the doorway in blue cotton pyjamas, a tartan housecoat tied tightly at his waist, and matching tartan slippers on his feet.

"You woke me up," he adds, rubbing his eyes and scowling.

"Joe was having a nightmare," explains Stirling.

"Yeah right," the young constable says, looking the two of them up and down as he stifles a big yawn. "If that's what you call a nightmare, I wouldn't mind having some."

He flicks off the light, returning the room to darkness, and slowly pads back up the stairs. A moment later, they hear the guest bedroom door slam.

"I don't think your house guest is too impressed with us," says Stirling, giggling.

"Well," says Joe, sitting on the chesterfield and pulling her up beside him. "I'm not too impressed with his timing. Where were we?"

He leans in and kisses her again, wrapping his arms around her and pushing her back until she lies on the chesterfield. He lowers himself on top of her as her arms wrap around his shoulders. As more of his weight begins to rest on her body, Stirling gasps out in pain.

Joe immediately sits up.

"Are you okay?" he asks. "Did I hurt you?"

"I guess my belly is a bit more tender than I expected," she says. "My right side kind of hurts too."

Joe gently lifts the hem of the old police muscle shirt he lent her to sleep in and examines her stomach wound.

"It looks okay," he says.

He lifts the shirt a bit higher to examine the scar along her right side.

"It's a bit red but it hasn't reopened." he says, lowering the shirt hem.

They sit next to each other on the chesterfield, gazing at one another, uncertain what to do.

"New rule," says Joe with a deciding nod of his head. "No messing around until we're both completely healed. I don't want to worry about hurting you and I'm sure you don't want to hurt me."

"How will we know when we're ready?" she whispers, leaning in to kiss him gently.

"We'll know," he says, returning her kiss.

He pulls back.

"We should get some sleep," he says. "We have an appointment with the Doc nice and early."

She stands up and gently touches his cheek before she turns to walk out the doorway.

"Stirling," Joe calls.

"Yes?" she says, turning to look back at him.

"I just want you to know you look a hell of a lot better in that shirt and those shorts than I do."

"Thanks," she says with a giggle. She slowly climbs each step, favouring her right side, and walks down the hallway and back into Joe's bedroom.

* * *

Stirling is up the next morning and in the kitchen making breakfast by 7 o'clock. About 7:30, PC Garrett stumbles down the stairs, still half asleep. He does a double take as he spies Stirling in front of the cooker, her hair tied back in a ponytail, wearing a sleeveless police workout shirt and a pair of blue tartan boxer shorts. She's flipping eggy fried bread in a pan using a thumb and splinted finger. She looks over her shoulder and smiles.

"Hungry?" she asks.

"Famished," the young constable admits, sitting down at the table.

Stirling fetches a plate out of the cupboard and cutlery from a drawer and hands it to him. She opens the oven door and, using padding for her hand, brings out a plate piled high with fried bread. She sets it carefully in the centre of the table on a folded tea towel and opens the refrigerator to set syrup, jelly and jam plus milk and orange juice on the table.

PC Garrett has just started on his first helping when Joe staggers out of the lounge, his hair a complete mess.

"Something smells fantastic," he says walking up to stand beside Stirling in front of the cooker. "And looks fantastic too."

He leans over and kisses her.

"Come on, I'm eating here," PC Garrett whines, his mouth crammed full of food.

"Then don't watch," says Joe, kissing Stirling again.

She laughs and playfully pushes him away.

"Grab a plate and get some breakfast before he eats it all," she says. "From the looks of things, he has a good head start on you."

Soon both police constables are shovelling in the food while Stirling finishes frying up the last of the bread. She turns off the cooker and the oven, grabs a plate and cutlery, and sits down at the table to grab a few pieces.

"This is fantastic," says PC Garrett, obviously enjoying his breakfast. "I could get used to this."

"He taught me everything I know about cooking," Stirling says, pointing with her fork across at Joe.

He looks between Stirling and Joe.

"Really?"

"I had to," says Joe. "Otherwise I would have starved."

He laughs as Stirling throws a piece of fried bread at his head, hitting him on the cheek.

"Don't play with your food," he says with mock severity, peeling the piece from his face.

"Joe spent about a month on 24-hour protective duty watching me," she explains to PC Garrett. "He soon became tired of sarnies and canned soup so he took over the meals. Next thing I know, he's giving me cooking lessons. I happen to know for a fact this is his favourite breakfast."

She smiles across at Joe, who she can tell is enjoying every bite.

"It's now my new favourite," says PC Garrett, mopping his plate with his last piece of bread.

He pushes back from the table.

"That was amazing, Dr. Aylesworth," he says. "I'm now completely stuffed. Thanks for breakfast."

He stands stiffly and walks upstairs to prepare for the day.

Stirling looks at her watch.

"I better get going, too," she says, taking her plate to the sink.

"So soon," says Joe, looking up with disappointment.

She laughs and kisses him on the nose.

"I'm going to see you in about 30 minutes," she says. "I need to get dressed into clean clothes and look presentable. Speaking of clothes, do you have any I could borrow?"

* * *

Five minutes later, Stirling is walking through town wearing a pair of baggy blue jogging pants, rolled up to her mid-calf, and a matching blue zippered hoody with a Devon and Cornwall Police crest on the chest. She's still wearing the trainers she took from the hospital and carries a bag full of the dirty clothes she "borrowed" from the nurses' locker room.

The village is bustling as she walks through it and many people stare in disbelief, not only at the fact she's out of the hospital and back in Portwenn, but that she is wearing the police constable's workout gear. Stirling just ignores the whispers.

"Stirling, it's good to see you home and up and around again," says Louisa, on her way to the primary school. She looks at the young doctor's outfit, a question in her eyes.

"I had to borrow some clothes from Joe to get home," she explains. "This is all he had that we could make work. It was either this or a muscle shirt and boxer shorts."

"I think you made the best choice," Louisa says, her lips twitching as she fights back a smile. "I'm sure this particular ensemble has been attracting quite a bit of attention this morning."

"You could say that," Stirling says, waving at a passing car, the driver staring open-mouthed at her.

"Well I better get moving before I cause an accident," she says to Louisa, continuing down the hill toward the harbour. "Have a good day at school."

Stirling continues to turn heads past the harbour and up the hill. She breathes a sigh of relief as she enters the surgery and shuts the door behind her. She leans against it for a moment, gathering her courage, and walks into the waiting room.

"Doc Stirling!"Morwenna shrieks, jumping up from her desk and running over to gently hug her. "It's so good to see you back."

The receptionist holds her at arm's length and looks her up and down. Her brow wrinkles with confusion as she notices the workout gear.

"I need to get dressed," Stirling says, moving toward the stairs. "I'll be down in a minute."

She looks at the two or three familiar faces watching her from the waiting room and waves.

"Good morning," she calls, walking carefully up the stairs.

She enters her bedroom and shuts the door behind her. It's been weeks since she's been home and she feels strangely nostalgic for her possessions, particularly her bed. It's obvious someone has been in cleaning and straightening, considering her bed has been made and a basket of freshly laundered and folded clothes sits at the end, waiting to be put away.

She stares at the large dog bed beside her own and feels the familiar sting of tears. Bucephalus. Stirling has been hesitant to spend too much time thinking about him. So far, it's been better to push her sadness to a far corner of her mind than actually deal with it. She knows she can't continue to do this, that some day she will have to come to terms with the fact her canine companion is gone. But she doesn't think she's there yet.

She fumbles with the hoody zipper as she kicks off her lost and found trainers and wiggles out of the workout trousers. She pulls off her socks using the heel of her other foot. She pulls the sleeveless police workout shirt down like a mini-dress, and sorts through the clean clothes in the basket. It takes her a bit longer than it normally would but she is soon dressed in tweed jodhpurs, a white tailored blouse and a matching tweed jacket. She pulls on a pair of black socks and slips on a pair of black paddock boots. She combs out her hair as she brushes her teeth. With a few minutes to spare, she clomps down the stairs.

She looks around the waiting room, noticing that Joe is not yet there. She turns to Morwenna.

"Can you help me?" she asks, offering her a hair scrunchy wound around one of her thumbs.

"No problem," says Morwenna, gathering back Stirling's curly auburn hair and putting it in a ponytail.

She's just finished tightening it one last twist when the front door opens and Joe enters, wearing a long-sleeved green cotton collared shirt and a pair of blue jeans.

Morwenna's eyes widen with excitement.

"Joe!" she squeals, rushing from behind Stirling to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "You're both back!"

Joe smiles at Stirling.

"You look wonderful," he says, taking her by the wrist and leading her over to a pair of empty chairs along the far wall. "I see you managed to get yourself changed. And all your buttons are done up and in the right holes."

"I won't tell you how long it took me to do that," she whispers. "You look pretty handsome yourself. Green is definitely your colour. It brings out your eyes. In fact, I'm think I'll contact the Devon and Cornwall force to see if they might consider changing the uniform shirt from white to green."

"Just for me?" he asks.

"No, for me!" she says, giving him a saucy wink.

She looks around the waiting room and notices Mrs. Chadwick waving at her from a seat almost directly across from her. She waves back.

"Good morning, Mrs. Chadwick," says Stirling. "You're looking well this morning."

"Just here for a prescription renewal," explains the elderly lady. She leans forward so she is closer to Stirling.

"He's a real fox," Mrs. Chadwick says in a stage whisper, pointing toward Joe. "I always enjoy watching him run around the village, ticketing cars, arresting the florist, managing the fun run. He has a very nice, firm bum, you know what I mean?"

Stirling finds herself nodding in agreement. She can hear Morwenna choking back laughter at her desk.

"You're right, green is definitely his colour," the old lady continues, warming to her subject. "And those jeans he has on today are tight, but in a very, very good way. You hang on to that one, Doc Stirling. Handsome, sexy men can be hard to come by in this part of Cornwall. And I bet he's a real tiger in the sack."

Morwenna can control herself no longer. She quickly pushes back her chair and rushes out the front door of the surgery, slamming the door behind her. Even through the closed double windows and solid brick walls, Stirling can hear her laughing. It doesn't help she can also see her through the front window, doubled over as she holds her stomach.

Stirling is afraid to look at Joe, knowing she might lose control of her own mirth depending on his facial expression. But she just can't resist taking a quick glance at him. He's trying his best to remain nonchalant but the embarrassment of the situation has proven to be too much, resulting in his face turning a brilliant shade of red. Stirling reaches over with her left hand and clasps his right as best she can with her splinted fingers.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Chadwick," she answers in a matching stage whisper. "I'm planning on hanging on to this one."

The old lady smiles and nods knowingly, leaning back in her chair.

The consultant room door opens and Mr. Mosey exits. Dr. Ellingham follows closely behind him, pausing uncertainly when he sees Morwenna is not at her desk. He looks around the room and notices Stirling and Joe waiting.

"Good, you're both here," he says. "Did you have any trouble walking from the station, Penhale?"

_Obviously, the Ellinghams have been sharing information_, Joe thinks.

He shakes his head.

"No problems at all, Doc. And after what happened yesterday, it's kind of weird."

"What happened yesterday?" asks Stirling, looking concerned.

"I'll tell you later," Joe whispers.

The Doc turns to look at the reception desk.

"Do you know where Morwenna has disappeared to?"

Stirling glances quickly out the front window and sees the young girl wiping at her face, preparing to come back into the surgery.

"She just had to step out for a moment and get some air," says Stirling. "She was complaining about how stuffy it was. She looked kind of pale."

Morwenna comes through the door and sees the Doc. She glances at Stirling, who nods okay to her. She walks around the doctor and sits down at her desk.

"Feeling better?" he asks.

"Much," she says with a smile, handing him a folder. "Here's Doc Stirling's chart."

"Good," he says, turning back toward the consulting room while gesturing with his hand at Stirling. "You first."

She gets up and follows him in, turning to wave bye to Joe.

Once behind closed doors, the Doc has her sit up on the examining couch and hold out her hands. He looks at each of the splints, testing to see how stable they are and how the wiring is holding up.

"Do they hurt?" he asks.

"They ache a bit sometimes, usually at night. Mostly, they are just incredibly itchy."

"I think I'm going to leave the splints on for another week," he says, helping her to remove her jacket.

He has her lie back on the couch and unbuttons the bottom of her blouse to examine her stomach wound. He lifts off the bandages and looks at the row of staples still embedded in her flesh. The wound has healed nicely, he observes.

"I'm going to take these staples out today," he says. "It's going to sting a bit."

She nods her head, familiar with the routine.

He rolls his cart over beside the couch and gathers the equipment he needs plus a small metal dish to put the removed staples in. He grabs his roller chair and pulls it forward under his bum.

"Here we go," he says, grabbing a pair of needle nose pliers.

It takes him about 15 minutes to remove the 24 staples, with only a couple that give him any problems. When he's finished, he puts a large cotton dressing over the wound and tapes it down.

"You should have that changed every day for the next week," he says. "I've contacted home care. They have assigned a nurse to visit you every day for the next two weeks. There will also be a caregiver coming every other day for about five hours to help you with bathing, washing your hair, laundry, meal preparation and any other chores you might have problems completing due to your hands."

He has her sit up and unbuttons the rest of her blouse, lifting it up so he can look at the wounds on each of her sides.

"I see they're both a bit red and inflamed where your brassiere strap crosses. Do you find it irritating?"

"Yes," she says. "I've been placing folded squares of gauze between my skin and the band in hopes of limiting the chaffing but they keep shifting."

The Doc is quiet for a moment, thinking.

"You might want to consider wearing a different kind of brassiere until the wound heals more and the skin toughens up. Maybe try one of those cotton sports bras? The softer material might not chaff as much."

Stirling finds it almost surreal that she is sitting calmly discussing different bra styles with the Chief.

The Doc has her completely remove her blouse and turns her arms so he can look at the tender skin along the inside. A long jagged line scars each of her arms from the wrist to well above the elbow.

"These have healed up very nicely," he says. "Do they hurt at all?"

"No, just very itchy."

"Good."

He moves up to the gunshot wound on her left shoulder, removing the bandage cover and examining the scattering of wounds.

"This is looking better even from last night," he says, applying more ointment over the wound. He puts a fresh bandage over the area and tapes it down.

He helps her put on her blouse and button up the front. She shrugs into her jacket as he sits at his desk and writes in her chart. She steps down from the examining couch gently and sits across from him.

"When can I come back to work?" she asks.

He looks up, somewhat surprised.

"You definitely can't return with your fingers the way they are now," he explains. "If I take those splints off next week and you start exercising your fingers and doing physiotherapy right away, it's still going to take another two to three weeks for you to be able to use them fully. I'm afraid you're going to be off for another three to four weeks."

Stirling pales.

"Just take it easy for awhile. Relax and heal. Your body has been through a lot of stress and trauma. It needs time to recuperate, especially those fingers."

She nods her head.

"The nurse visits should start tomorrow and the caregiver is expected this afternoon. Any questions?"

Stirling looks up and gives him a small smile.

"No Chief, I think you've covered it all. Thank you."

She rises from her chair and opens the consulting room door.

"Dr. Aylesworth," he says.

She turns back.

"I meant what I said. Relax and take it easy. Take some time for yourself. Heal your body. This village can survive a little longer with just me to help them."

"Sure thing, Chief," she says.

She sits down next to Joe and gives his left hand a slight squeeze.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

She nods her head, staring into the distance.

"I'm going to be off work for another three to four weeks," she whispers. "I think I'll go insane."

He leans over and whispers in her ear.

"I won't let you."

"Penhale!" the Doc shouts from the consulting room.

Joe stands up and takes his patient folder from Morwenna before walking into the back room, shutting the door behind him.

The Doc takes the folder from him and tosses it onto his desk.

"Up on the examining couch," he says, rolling the cart over as Joe pulls himself up.

"Shirt off," he says, pulling on a pair of examination gloves.

He starts with the stomach wound, which has infected several times and is still giving Joe trouble periodically.

"That's what happens when you don't listen to doctor advice and instead decide to act like a complete imbecile," the doctor mutters as he presses against the wound's edges. "This is looking better but I want you to continue putting the ointment on morning and night."

"Sure thing, Doc."

Dr. Ellingham examines the gunshot wound on the back of Joe's right shoulder. The damage had been extensive as the bullet went right through his shoulder and into Stirling. But he had taken the brunt of the impact, ultimately saving Stirling's life. The Doc had spent hours in surgery repairing what he could but Joe's right arm will probably always be a little weaker then his left.

"How's the physio coming?" the Doc asks as he examines the front and back of the wound.

"It's pretty tough," Joe admits. "My arm is usually killing me about 15 minutes in."

"Keep working on it. You want to get your range of motion back. Swimming would be a good exercise to try. Otherwise, this wound is healing nicely."

The wounds on the inside of Joe's arms have been difficult to manage considering he is exerting his arms doing the physiotherapy exercises for his shoulder. The Doc has re-sutured them already once and is hopeful he doesn't have to touch them again. But as he examines the wounds, he can see the dark splotches of infection along both scars. He sighs.

"Infection is settling in again," he says. "I'm going to prescribe you 10 days of oral antibiotics to see if we can catch this before it gets too bad. And be sure to take the full course of pills, even if the infected areas clear up."

Joe gingerly puts his shirt back on, slowly buttoning the front before stepping down from the examination couch and sitting in front of the Doc's desk.

"How's your head?" Dr. Ellingham asks as he writes out Joe's prescription and hands it to him.

"I'm still getting at least one really severe headache a week. And it's taking about 1600 mg of paracetamol to even touch the pain."

"We might have to order you another CAT scan if this doesn't clear up in the next week," says the Doc. "Has the force been in contact with you about your medical leave?"

"CI Manning is scheduled to visit the station this afternoon," says Joe. "I'm sure that will be one of the topics he'll want to discuss with me."

The Doc looks up with some concern.

"Has there been any more discussion about the IPPC investigation?"

"No," says Joe nervously. "But I'm expecting that will also come up."

Dr. Ellingham clears his throat.

"If this becomes an issue for you, let me know," he says to Joe. "You might require legal representation depending on how this plays out."

"I was considering calling my local police federation representative," says Joe.

"That' a good idea. But if they can't help you, I know someone who probably can."

"Thanks, Doc," says Joe, slightly surprised by the medical man's concern.

"My recommendation is you need another three weeks of leave to fully recover. You really need to get that range of motion back in your right shoulder before you go back on the beat. And I'm still a bit concerned about infection in those arm wounds. If the force needs a formal report from me, get them to contact Morwenna."

"Thanks again, Doc."

"I highly recommend you take this time off to relax and rest, Penhale. Take some time for yourself and let your body heal fully before you go back. Don't let them pressure you back to work if you don't feel capable."

"I want to see you in two weeks for a check-up. If anything changes or flares up before then, including headaches, come in to see me right away."

Joe stands up and shakes the Doc's hand before heading back out to the waiting room.

"Next patient," the doctor bellows.

"How did it go?" asks Stirling.

"He's recommending at least another three weeks medical leave."

"You too, eh."

They both book follow-up appointments with Morwenna before they walk over to the residential side of the surgery. They pause in the doorway of the piano room, nervous to enter. They unconsciously reach for each others hands and walk in slowly, taking in the changes.

A new carpet covers the piano room floor and the kitchen has new floor tiling. Both rooms have also been repainted a light grey colour. Even the bookcases lining the piano room walls have been replaced, although most of the books on the shelves look like Stirling's originals.

The piano still sits in the middle of the room, covered in a dust cloth. Stirling walks up and pulls off the cover, slowly unveiling the shiny, black Steinway. It remains completely unscathed, even the keys and the cover, which someone has obviously spent a lot of time scrubbing and cleaning.

Stirling will always remember the cover smashing down onto her fingers; one never forgets pain like that.

She can see a corner of Bucephalus' bed peeking out from under the piano but she tries to ignore it, shifting sad thoughts out of her mind.

She tentatively touches a key as she sits down on the piano bench. She places her stiff, splinted fingers on several of the keys and presses down, playing a slow scale. She can feel the splints slipping on the surface, resulting in a jerky sound and the odd misplayed note. She removes her hands and carefully closes the cover.

"I might have to wait for the splints to come off before I try that again," she says with a sad smile.

Joe sits down beside her on the bench.

"I thought it sounded pretty good considering you were playing with eight broken fingers."

Stirling laughs, still a touch of sadness in her voice.

Joe leans over and kisses her softly. He glances at his watch - 10 a.m.

"I have an appointment at the station set for one o'clock and there's still two hours before lunch. Are you interested in going for a walk?"

She smiles.

"I'd love to."


	31. Chapter 30

The sun is warm as they walk side-by-side along the cliff top path. There is a slight breeze blowing off the Celtic Sea, just enough to keep the sun's heat from being too uncomfortable. They walk along in companionable silence until Stirling remembers Joe's cryptic comment to the Doc at the surgery.

"What happened yesterday?"

Joe glances at her, looking curious.

"What do you mean?"

"When you were talking to the Doc earlier in the surgery, you said: 'And after what happened yesterday, it's kind of weird.' What happened yesterday?"

"Oh, that."

"Yeah, that."

"I had a relapse of my agoraphobia not long after I was released from the hospital."

Stirling looks concerned.

"What happened?"

"I was bored half out of my mind being back at the station with nothing to do," recounts Joe. "So I put on my uniform and decided to walk the village, something I've done hundreds of times before. About 20 feet away from the station door, I had a panic attack."

Stirling reaches over and takes Joe's left hand in her own.

"I managed to work through it and continued further into the village. I had another attack right outside the primary school. Louisa happened to be leaving for home at the time. And like, a minute later, Dr. Ruth Ellingham drives by and stops, wondering what I'm doing out of the hospital. She ended up driving me back to the station."

"You seem fine this morning," says Stirling. "And now."

"That's the strange thing. I'm feeling much better, more relaxed. I've lost that nervous feeling in my stomach - do you know what I mean?"

Stirling nods her head.

"It feels like a sinking feeling but with a gnawing pain?" she suggests.

"Exactly. It's gone now."

He's quiet for a moment as they walk.

"I think it was you," he says quietly. "When you came to the station last night to tell me you didn't blame me, that it wasn't my fault, that's when the feeling just disappeared."

Stirling squeezes his hand, at least as much as she can with splinted fingers.

The pair is walking very slowly and is just beyond the lookout point park bench when Stirling stops. She is startled by what she sees ahead. A large pile of stones and rocks sits about 10 feet from the cliff path. It was never there before. It's on a bit of a rise and looks out over the sea plus the green fields inland.

"What is that?" she asks, slowly approaching the pile.

"I'm not sure," admits Joe, walking forward beside her.

Once she is closer, Stirling notices a silver plaque screwed to the largest rock - a boulder really - sitting closest to the path and the sea. She gasps as she reads the words engraved on its surface.

_**BUCEPHALUS -** A faithful friend who sacrificed himself protecting the one he loved_

_"I could die for you._

_My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet."_

_- John Keats_

Stirling falls to her knees before the cairn, reaching out her hand to touch the indented ridges of the engraving. The metal is warm from the sun. She can feel the heat emanating from the rocks, reminding her of the warmth Bucephalus provided when he stretched out beside her on the bed.

"Bucephalus," she whispers.

She leans her forehead against the boulder, her hands resting on top of the craggy surface, and sobs, her shoulders shaking. It all bursts from her - the pain, the fear, the sadness - as she cries at the grave of her beloved dog. She pants for breath as the sobs leave her body, hiccupping and stuttering with emotion.

"Bu - Bu - Bu - Bucephalus," she chokes out of her throat in a wail.

She can sense Joe behind her. He leaves her alone to cry and mourn but after five minutes, he reaches down and pulls her up, turning her body so he can hold her against his chest. He rubs his hands up and down her back as she cries, saying nothing. He doesn't have to. Stirling already knows it in her heart.

* * *

They sit together on the bench, Joe holding her against him, her head tucked under his chin, his arms around her. She sniffs occasionally, her tears beginning to dry.

"I miss him," she whispers. "When I was in the hospital, it was so easy to imagine he was waiting for me at the surgery. This morning, when I entered my bedroom, I looked for him on the bed and he wasn't there. His pillow on the floor was empty. But I pushed the knowledge away, out of my mind, imagining he was just somewhere else in the house, maybe under the piano or sprawled out in a patch of sun on the kitchen floor."

Joe softly strokes her hair as she talks.

"I don't want it to be true," she says. "I want to shut my eyes and open them again a few minutes later and realize it's not true; he isn't dead; Spencer didn't stab him to death on the piano room floor. It was all just a bad dream."

They are silent for a few minutes, Stirling clutching Joe's arm, Joe tenderly petting her hair.

"The Doc tried to save him," he says.

Stirling tips back her head, looking up at Joe.

"What?"

"When I was in the hospital and you were still unconscious, the Doc spent an afternoon telling me what he found when he first entered the surgery. The shooting, the yelling, the screaming - we woke up the whole town. But it was the Doc who came through the door first. Louisa tried to stop him but he went anyway. And, of course, she followed him."

"He said he thought we were all dead. There was blood everywhere - on the walls, squishing out of the carpet, all over the piano, the kitchen, everywhere. He said the smell almost made him relapse; he could feel the bile rising but he managed to swallow it back down.

"He went to you first because he saw you move. He had Louisa go into the consulting room and grab all of the bandages, blankets, everything she could find to bind wounds, and bring it to him. When she came back, she told him somebody had ripped apart the room and had smashed through the bottom of the door. It wasn't until later they realized Bucephalus had done that.

"While he worked on you, Doc had Louisa check Spencer and me. Spencer was already dead but when she got to me, she could still feel a faint heart beat. She told him and they traded spaces, the Doc to try to stabilize me, and Louisa to keep pressure on your worst wounds.

"I guess a big crowd gathered at the back door of the surgery. Something like half the village was milling about in the back garden. But Morwenna managed to push her way through to help. Doc had her applying pressure to my wounds while he called for assistance. He wanted a helicopter to transport us to hospital but dispatch was hesitating. I guess he berated and bullied the poor woman until she ordered the helicopter to land at the Portwenn harbour.

"Doc said he did as much as he could for us with what there was at the surgery but had to wait until the helicopter arrived with more advanced equipment. And while he waited, he worked on Bucephalus."

Stirling can feel the tears rolling down her cheeks again as she listens to Joe.

"The dog had been whining the whole time he had been treating you and I, and the Doc couldn't stand the sound anymore. He dragged him off Spencer and grabbed some towels from the kitchen to pack in the wounds. I guess the knife was still in Bucephalus' side. When the Doc pulled it out, the blood just started spurting out. He tried to stop the flow but Bucephalus was dead in minutes. He just bled out. There was nothing the Doc could do.

"He told me when the helicopter arrived, he flew to the hospital with us, leaving Morwenna and Louisa in charge of keeping people out of the surgery and helping the police. He never said what happened to Bucephalus' body. I had no idea he was buried here."

They're silent for a while, Stirling crying softly and Joe holding her.

"It's a beautiful spot," he says, looking out to sea. "He can look at the fields on one side and the water on the other. He did love to run up here."

Stirling shifts in his arms, wiping her face with the sleeve of her jacket.

"I never asked after him at all," she says quietly. "They told me he was dead; I just didn't believe them. So I never even bothered asking what had happened to his body."

"It's understandable," says Joe, pulling her closer to him. "It was a traumatic experience, a shock. I'm still not thinking clearly a month later."

He feels her shake slightly and looks down, realizing she is laughing quietly.

"What?" he says, feeling slightly wounded.

"So that's your excuse," she says, pulling back to look at him fully. "That's why you're here, sitting on a bench overlooking the sea, holding a woman with eight broken fingers while she sobs over her dog. You're still not thinking clearly."

Joe smiles and pulls her back towards him on the bench.

"When it comes to you, my thinking is crystal clear."

He kisses her fervently, drawing her deeper into his arms. She responds in kind, melting against his lips and body.

They are so busy getting off they don't notice the figure walking along the path toward them, fishing pole over his shoulder, tackle box in hand. Bert Large is on his way back to the village and his restaurant after an enjoyable early morning spent fishing at his secret spot.

"Hey Joe. Hey Doc," he says as he walks past the lip-locked couple. He never slows down or falters.

They break apart and turn to watch Bert continue down the path away from them, whistling and swinging his tackle box happily.

Stirling laughs.

"Well, that was a bit embarrassing and awkward," she says.

"Only to you, it would appear," says Joe with a smile. "It seems Bert couldn't have cared less. I know I couldn't."

He moves toward her on the bench and she surprises him by standing up.

"I think we better continue with that walk," she says. "Or we may end up on this bench all day."

Joe laughs, getting to his feet.

"Doctor's orders," he says, grasping Stirling's right hand and walking beside her along the path away from Portwenn.

* * *

Joe returns to the police station with 10 minutes to spare before his scheduled meeting with CI Manning.

Upstairs, he changes into a dark blue Devon and Cornwall Police polo shirt, complete with the force's crest, and a pair of uniform trousers. He ties on his dress shoes and, on his way by, stops in the loo to make sure his hair is neat and he looks presentable.

He takes a deep calming breath before he opens the door between the living quarters and the station. PC Garrett is on the phone taking down information on some missing sheep when Joe enters the office. He looks out the communication window between the office and the reception area - CI Manning has not yet arrived.

Joe sits down in one of the office chairs to wait. He leans back and puts his feet up on the desk area, watching PC Garrett sweat as he tries to deal with the irate farmer on the other end of the phone.

"Yes, yes, I know what sheep look like," the young constable says, twiddling his pen. "But I need to know exactly what your sheep look like, Mr. Boatright, to be able to file the report. We need to be able to tell your sheep from others that might just be wandering around. Do they have any distinguishing markings or features?"

Joe's quietly laughing to himself when the outer station door opens. He stands up as CI Manning walks up to the window.

"PC Penhale," he says, nodding his head in Joe's direction. "Good to see you up and out of the hospital."

"Nice to see you again, CI Manning, sir," says Joe.

"Well, Mr. Boatright, I don't think you need to use that kind of language," says PC Garrett, spinning back and forth in his chair. "It's a perfectly reasonable request: Do you have any photos of your sheep we can use to help identify them?"

"Uhmm, perhaps we should go through to the kitchen, sir," says Joe, escorting CI Manning down the station hall and through the connecting door. "It will be quieter in here."

CI Manning looks around the kitchen, noting several dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. He sits down at the table, placing a file folder in front of him.

"Can I get you anything, sir? A tea? Coffee?"

"No."

Joe sits down across the table from his superior, feeling incredibly nervous.

"Well, we might as well get right to it," CI Manning says, opening the file folder and shuffling papers. "You have been on paid sick leave for approximately the past four weeks. According to the report your attending doctor filed when you were discharged from Truro hospital, he's recommending a further one month's recuperation time before you return to full active duty."

The sour-faced officer looks up at Joe.

"We concur with his recommendation. During your convalescence, you will be required to follow any therapeutic activities ordered by your doctor, including regularly attending physiotherapy appointments. We will require your GP to provide regular updates on the progress of your recovery. I have some paperwork here you need to fill out permitting your doctor to share any medical records, pertaining only to the injuries you received the morning of May 6, with the force."

CI Manning hands Joe a small handful of official-looking papers, which he sets on the table in front of him.

"After the one month convalescence period is completed, we will reassess your physical and mental fitness to return to full-time duty, with the assistance of your GP of course. Do you understand everything so far, PC Penhale?"

Joe nods his head as he leafs through the paperwork.

"You will be permitted to continue residing in this residence free of charge during your recovery period and will have access to full employee benefits. But you will have no clearance to operate any vehicles or equipment provided by the Devon and Cornwall Police. This includes your assigned Land Rover."

_There goes my transportation,_ thinks Joe.

CI Manning gives a sigh and begins digging deeper into the file folder.

"That deals with the medical side of things," he says, finally pulling a small booklet out of the folder. He hands it across the table to Joe. "As for the IPCC review, the commission will be contacting you within a fortnight to arrange a time when one of its investigators can interview you regarding your actions on May 5 and 6. That booklet explains all of your rights and responsibilities as the subject police constable of an IPCC enquiry. I highly recommend you read it and, if you feel it is necessary, retain legal representation."

Joe sighs, feeling the knot of worry and apprehension return to the pit of his stomach.

"Your actions over those two days are also to be the subject of an internal review within the Devon and Cornwall Police force. The case has been assigned to an internal affairs officer who will be reviewing all of the facts in the case and making a decision as to whether any disciplinary action is required. He or she will also be contacting you within a fortnight."

Joe feels gutted.

"Based on when the IPCC review is completed, a coroner's inquest will also be held. As the subject police constable in the death of Spencer Graham, you will be required to give evidence. Please be prepared for that eventuality, although I don't expect it to occur for several months."

Joe now feels like throwing up.

"I'm sure it's a lot to process at once, PC Penhale," says CI Manning without any hint of empathy in his voice. "Do you have any questions?"

Joe shakes his head, feeling defeated.

"Good."

CI Manning stands up from the table and shakes Joe's hand.

"Good luck, Constable."

Joe escorts his commanding officer out of the apartment and through the station to the main door.

"Official notifications will be forthcoming in the mail within the next 14 days, Constable. Please fill out that medical paperwork and return it to us through internal force mail as soon as possible."

And with that, CI Manning is gone.

Joe stands by the station doorway for a moment. He quickly turns and sprints to the public loo just off the station reception area. He makes it to the toilet just in time to honk up his lunch and breakfast.

"Bloody hell," he whispers, sitting on his knees on the tile floor. "I'm completely screwed."


	32. Chapter 31

Stirling sits slouched on a small stool in the upstairs feeling like she is in heaven. Strong fingers massage her scalp as they distribute shampoo throughout her hair. Her eyes are closed as she savours the moment.

She sighs.

"Feels good, eh?" asks the plump, silver-haired woman who is washing her hair.

"It's beyond good," says Stirling. "It feels bloody brilliant."

The woman laughs.

Ollie has been at the surgery the sum total of 30 minutes and already Stirling is in love, wondering how she ever survived without her, even before the attack. A load of laundry is washing downstairs, clothing has been put away, meals have been planned. And now her hair is being washed.

She leans back further over the tub as Ollie begins to rinse out the soap using a hand sprayer attached to the faucet.

_I could fall asleep_, thinks Stirling. _It's just so relaxing._

Five minutes later, Ollie is towel drying her hair, tut-tutting over the state of Stirling's hands.

"Just look at those fingers," she says. "You poor lamb."

She takes a comb from the counter and begins to gently remove the tangles in Stirling's hair.

"I'll have you looking spiffy in no time."

Stirling just closes her eyes and savours the pampering. She's almost asleep sitting up when she hears her name called from downstairs.

"I should see who that is," she says, standing up from her stool.

"I'm finished anyway, love," Ollie says, pulling free the towel she has tucked inside the collar of Stirling's shirt to keep her clothing dry. She immediately starts cleaning up the disarray caused by the hair wash.

Stirling hears her name again.

"Coming," she calls, walking as quickly as she can through her bedroom and down the stairs.

Morwenna stands at the bottom next to a very dishevelled and pale-looking Joe who is also panting. If he didn't have severe stomach, shoulder and arm injuries, she could almost imagine that he had just run here.

Everyone in the crowded waiting room is watching.

"Joe wants to talk to you," says Morwenna. "I wasn't just going to send him up since I knew you were getting your hair washed."

"Thanks, Morwenna," says Stirling, grasping Joe's arm and leading him through to the piano room.

"Did you run here?" she asks, wide-eyed.

"I had to see you right away, talk to you, get your advice."

"You shouldn't be running in your condition! You haven't healed enough! Let me look," she says, reaching to pull up his shirt.

"No!" says Joe sharply, stopping her instantly.

She can't recall Joe ever raising his voice before; certainly never to her.

He puts his hands gently on her shoulders.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell. But I need to talk to you. I think I'm in big trouble."

Stirling takes one of his hands and leads him to the kitchen, where she pulls out a chair for him. She gets two tumblers from the cupboard and a carafe of cold water from the refrigerator, setting them on the table. She sits down adjacent to him.

"CI Manning came to visit me this afternoon," he says.

As soon as she hears the name, Stirling pulls a face.

"We had some business to discuss regarding my medical leave. But he informed me the IPCC, the Independent Police Complaints Commission, is conducting a review of what happened here that night after the Policemen's Ball. He also told me the force is conducting its own investigation, which is being handled by an internal affairs officer. So I have two different actions being launched against me and I'm not quite sure what to do. I think my career as a police constable might be over."

"Rubbish!"

Both Stirling and Joe startle as the Doc enters the kitchen through the short hall by the consulting room. He's holding his espresso cup, which he washes in the kitchen sink before preparing to make another cup. He turns to face the pair at the table.

"It's time to call in the professionals," he says. "Better ring your annoying London friends, Dr. Aylesworth. It would appear Penhale is in need of your Mr. Aubrey's expertise."

* * *

All she tells them is she needs their help. It takes two days for Michael and Christopher to clear their calendars of prior commitments and another day for Leyland to pack and drive them down from London.

Those three days are among the most stressful Joe ever experiences as he watches the post every day, awaiting his summons to an IPCC review or a Devon and Cornwall Police internal investigation. He barely sleeps and when he does manage to nod off, the nightmares have him screaming back awake, sometimes with an irate, tartan attired PC Garrett standing above him.

Stirling can see the difference in him, even after a few days. Every morning, they walk together on the cliff top path heading west along the coastline. As each day goes by, he looks more haggard than the day before and the black circles under his eyes are becoming darker.

"It's going to be okay," she says on the third morning as she gathers wild flowers along the side of the path to place on Bucephalus' cairn. "The boys are going to be here later tonight and this will all get sorted out."

Joe stands with his back to her, staring out to sea, his hands shoved in his trouser pockets. He doesn't move or speak.

She sets down the small pile of flowers she has collected and walks up behind him.

"Hey," she says, touching his arm. "Earth to Joe; come in Joe."

He turns his head and smiles at her, putting his arm around her and pulling her in close beside him.

"I was just imagining what my life will be like being something other than a police constable," he says. "You know, like a shoppe security guard or a binman."

Stirling gives him a playful slap on the arm.

"You are not going to become a binman," she says laughing. "I won't allow it."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks, an edge to his voice. "You have an issue with binmen?"

"My boyfriend will not be a binman," she says stubbornly. "He is a police constable and always will be a police constable, no matter what; unless he gets promoted, that is."

"Your boyfriend, eh? Is that what you're calling me these days? And what makes you think I'm your boyfriend?"

"Well, you hold my hand," she says.

"Yes."

"You visit me every day."

"Yes."

"We go for long, romantic walks together."

"Yes."

"We eat lunch together almost every day."

"Yes."

"You send silly messages to my mobile that make me laugh."

"Only boyfriends do that? I think good friends might do that, too."

"You let me wear your clothes."

He nods.

"And you kiss me."

"Well, lots of people kiss. Parents kiss their children. Friends kiss. Siblings kiss. It's even acceptable for some world leaders to kiss when they greet one another. What makes you think I'm kissing like a boyfriend would?"

"Because if parents, friends, siblings and world leaders kissed me the way you do, they'd be under arrest," teases Stirling, leaning in toward Joe and kissing him passionately. She wraps her arms around him and pulls him in closer, trailing her hand down his back.

He pulls his lips from hers.

"You saucy minx," he says.

"Shut up and kiss me," she says, grabbing his shirt collar and pulling him back.

They snog for what feels like hours, mouths open, teeth nipping, hands everywhere. Stirling feels incredibly light headed as Joe finally pulls away.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"We have to stop," he says, panting slightly. "It's too much. Any more and I won't be able to stop. And we made a deal. No messing around until we've both recovered. We're not there yet."

Stirling is gutted.

Joe laughs at her sad expression, pulling her to him and holding her close.

"I appreciate the effort," he says. "You're a wonderful distraction. But that's just it. I don't want you to be just a distraction. When we finally get a leg over, I only want to be thinking and concentrating on one thing - you."

Stirling smiles and leans her body against him.

"Get a leg over," she says, laughing. "Such a classy choice of words."

"Well, at least I didn't say shag. Or bonk. Or rodger. Or get our end away. Or having it off. Or a little bit of how's your father; wink, wink, nudge, nudge."

Stirling laughs loudly, probably the heartiest laugh Joe has heard her make since the night Spencer Graham attacked them. He feels a warm sensation spread through his chest as he watches her.

"That was wonderful," he says, as she finally stops to wipe the tears of laughter from her eyes.

"What was?"

"Seeing and hearing you laugh like that again. I've missed it."

Stirling blushes and quickly bends over to retrieve her wild flower bouquet.

Grasping her left hand, Joe walks beside her along the path back toward Portwenn.

* * *

The Bentley pulls into the village around 6 o'clock that evening.

When Stirling opens the front door of the surgery, she is met by, as usual, an impeccably dressed Michael and Christopher plus Leyland, incredibly overloaded with luggage.

"Hi honey, we're home!" Michael cries, giving her a quick kiss on the lips as he walks in.

"We got here as soon as we could, Ling-Ling," says Christopher, hugging her close and kissing her forehead. He follows Michael into the piano lounge, where he is admiring the placement of the Steinway.

"Good god, Leyland! Let me help you," Stirling cries, trying to take some luggage from him.

"I'm perfectly fine, Miss Stirling," he says, balancing his load through the doorway. "Which bedroom upstairs?"

"The one they were in last time," she says, watching the old man totter up the stairs. She waits until he comes back down, inviting him in to have a tea or coffee, but he declines.

"I'm going to get settled at The Crab and Lobster," he explains. "After that trip, I'm really looking forward to a nice pint of Guinness."

And with that, the old man walks out the surgery door.

Stirling walks into the piano room, ready to give Michael a tongue lashing. Instead, she's met by the two men, arms crossed across their chests, looking extremely angry.

"What?"

The Chief and Joe are sitting at the kitchen table, looking sheepish.

_Uh-oh_, she thinks.

"You didn't mention you hadn't told them," says Joe quietly, tracing a pattern on the table-top with his finger. "Sorry."

"Shit!" Stirling curses.

Christopher is the first to move, stepping forward and grabbing her arms. He gasps as he sees the splinted fingers and cries out in horror when he notices the long scars lines on the inside of each of her arms.

"It looks worse than it is," she says quickly.

Michael steps forward and examines the damage as well.

"It looks like you tried to off yourself using an incredibly dull, rusty nail," he says drily.

Christopher starts to cry, wrapping his arms around Stirling and hugging her tightly. She gasps at the pain, which makes him immediately let go.

"There's more!" he says incredulously, looking her up and down.

She pulls down the neckline of her shirt to show the bullet damage on her left shoulder, lifts her shirt hem to show the bandage crossing her lower abdomen and then points to each of her sides.

Christopher starts crying harder.

Michael turns and walks toward Joe, looking extremely angry.

"And just what the hell were you doing while she was getting the piss shot and cut out of her?" he roars.

The Doc stands up while Stirling walks quickly after Michael, both rushing to Joe's aid.

"Saving her life!" the Chief shouts, taking both Joe and Stirling by surprise. "Take your shirt off, Penhale."

Joe looks at the Doc like he's lost his mind.

"I'm not taking my shirt off to prove anything," he says, crossing his arms across his chest.

As he does so, Michael catches a glimpse of the scars on the inside of his arms. He pauses long enough for Stirling to catch up to him.

"He saved my life, Michael," she says gently, turning him toward her.

"He has the mirror scar to this," she says, touching the left side of her chest.

"And he has a matching set of these," she adds, showing her inner arms again. "Plus a smiley mouth on his stomach."

Michael is silent for a moment, staring at Stirling's arms. He turns toward Joe. "Sorry mate. I'm just a bit upset. It's a lot to take in all at once."

"Don't worry," Joe says, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. "I appear to be the official whipping boy for this incident anyway."

Stirling shoots him a dirty look but he doesn't notice.

"Why didn't you contact us?" sobs Christopher from behind her.

"For this exact reason," Stirling says, throwing up her arms in frustration. "I knew you would fall apart and become all weepy and I knew Michael would become all outraged and pitch a fit. I survived. I'm alive. I'm recovering. Soon, the splints will be off and I'll be able to use my fingers again. It will all be behind me. And we can move on."

Everyone in the room is silent, staring at her, wondering if she actually believes the words coming out of her mouth.

After a few moments silence, Michael asks the dreaded question: "Where's Bucephalus?"

It feels like the floor has fallen out from under Stirling as Michael's words echo in her head. Nausea waves over her as the room starts to spin, appearing to orbit around her in quicker and quicker rotations.

"Hey Stirling, where is Bucephalus?" Spencer's voice taunts in her head.

She turns and races from the room. The men listen as her footsteps pound up the stairs, followed by the slam of her bedroom door being closed emphatically.

Joe stands up from the table and follows her.

Michael and Christopher stand in shock, uncertain what they've just witnessed.

"Was it something I said?"

"I think you both better come and have a seat," says the Doc wearily. "I have a long story to tell you. You deserve to know and I don't think you're going to get it from those two at the moment."

* * *

Upstairs, Joe knocks on Stirling's door, softly calling her name.

"Can I come in?" he asks.

He hears nothing so he tries the door knob, which turns unhindered.

Inside the room, he finds Stirling sitting on her bed, hugging one of her pillows to her chest, rocking back and forth as she cries.

Saying nothing, Joe walks over and sits on the bed beside her, putting his arm around her. She leans in to his chest as her shoulder's shake with emotion. For a long time, the only sound in the room is Stirling's sobs.

"I know eventually it's going to get better," she says finally, sniffling. "I know with time the pain in my chest will become a little duller and the sound of his name won't make me run crying from a room. Part of me is relieved that this will happen, that it will all become a little more bearable. But another part of me never wants the pain to go away, never wants to become accustomed to his absence."

"Stirling," Joe says quietly, kissing her forehead. "No one who knew him, who knows what he did for you and for me, will ever become accustomed to his absence. I know I never will."

Stirling leans her head deeper into Joe's chest and wraps her arms around him, holding him close.

About half an hour later, Stirling and Joe come down the stairs and enter the kitchen. Michael, Christopher and the Doc are still sitting at the table, each of them sipping from a steaming cup of coffee.

"I'm sorry, boys," Stirling says. "It's all still a bit too fresh in my mind at the moment."

Christopher stands up and hugs her gently, leading her over to an empty chair at the table. Joe takes the only one left.

"Your Chief has explained everything to us," says Michael.

"Everything," he stresses, looking at Joe. "And I'm willing to help. Have you filled out or signed any documents from the force?"

"Just some medical forms," says Joe.

"Have you sent them in yet?"

"No, I still have them."

"I'd like to review them before you send them back," says Michael. "I also need to review your employee contract and any documentation you may have pertaining to your employee benefits. Have you received any notification from the IPCC or internal affairs yet?"

"No, but I've been told to expect them in the next week or so."

"I have a lawyer friend in Truro who can probably find out who in the Devon and Cornwall Police will be handling the internal review. I also know some people with IPCC who might be able to tell me who is handling its investigation."

Michael's quiet for a moment, thinking.

"I'm going to need somewhere quiet to work with access to the Internet."

Stirling thinks about the surgery but realizes it will be way too busy with patients and other activity, including the coming and going of the home nurse and Ollie, for Michael to be able to concentrate.

"You can use the lounge in the residence side of the station," says Joe. "It's empty most of the day and we can easily clear an area for you to work. I'm sure PC Garrett won't mind having the telly in his room for the next little while."

"And we can use the force's own Internet and telephone service," says Michael with a laugh. "I love it."

Joe looks nervously at Michael.

"Do you think I have a chance of keeping my job?" he asks.

"Keeping your job?" Michael asks incredulously. "By the time I'm done with them, you'll be the new Chief Superintendent of the force."

The Doc looks up sharply, hoping the cocky London lawyer is joking.


	33. Chapter 32

As Joe sits in the brightly lit hallway, he picks at a few pieces of lint stuck to his black trousers.

It's the first time he's been in a dress uniform since that night in May. For a moment, he wonders if it's the same uniform but then shakes his head.

"It can't be," he thinks.

That dress uniform would have been destroyed - they never would have been able to get all the blood out of it; repair the holes.

He also recalls the Doc mentioning something about needing to cut the clothing off him.

He wonders where this dress uniform came from.

"Obviously, the Devon and Cornwall Police," he thinks.

But he never asked for a new one; he never thought to. A few days ago, Michael handed it to him and told him to wear it today. So he did.

He can hear murmuring in the room behind him but no actual words. He's been waiting to be called in for the past 30 minutes. He was told he's likely to be the only person giving evidence today but it appears there are other issues to resolve before he enters the room.

He knows Michael will handle it, do what's in Joe's best interest. Michael has been amazing since this whole nightmare started. He's thankful the Doc suggested calling him when he did. Joe's not sure where he would be without him.

He sighs and stretches his legs out in front of him. His right shoulder is hurting today and sitting in the hard wooden chair is aggravating it.

The hallway in front of him is bustling with activity as police constables, superior officers and support staff walk to and from various meetings or offices.

He stands up and walks a short distance down the hall and back again, trying to stretch out his muscles. Two female constables walking by both turn to look back at him as he paces and swings his arm.

The door opens and Michael steps out.

"We're ready for you, Joe," he says, holding the door open for him.

Joe picks up his hat from the chair, straightens his uniform jacket, adjusts his tie and walks through the door. The room is smaller than he expects. A large meeting room table sits in the middle of it with a man and woman sitting on the far side. Two empty chairs are across from them. A jug of ice water and empty glasses sit on the table. Michael tells him to sit down and then settles into the chair next to him.

A well-dressed man in his mid-60s sits across from Joe. An equally well-dressed woman, looking to be in her early 50s, sits across from Michael.

"Police Constable Penhale, thank you for agreeing to speak with us today," says the well-dressed man. "I'm Alexander Manly and this is Beatrice Allen. We're both investigators with the Independent Police Complaints Commission. I understand through Mr. Aubrey, your legal representative, that you are still feeling the affects of your injuries. If at any time you need to take a break, require more water or have any other needs, just let us know."

"Yes, sir," Joe says, setting his hat on the table in front of him. He pours a glass of ice water from the jug and takes a swallow.

"Due to the unusual nature of the events that occurred between the evening of May 5 and the early morning hours of May 6, and the subsequent death of Spencer Graham, this case was referred to the IPCC to investigate. It is mandatory that any incident involving the death or serious injury of a suspect who is in custody or has recently been in contact with police must be referred to the IPCC.

"The purpose of this investigation is to establish the facts, the sequence of the events and the resulting consequences. We will be investigating how and to what extent, if any, Spencer Graham had contact with you or other members of the police, and the degree to which this contact, whether directly or indirectly, contributed to his death. Do you understand, Police Constable Penhale?"

"Yes, sir."

"We will be asking you a series of questions to hopefully establish what exactly happened between the evening of May 5 and the early morning hours of May 6. Your legal representative, Mr. Aubrey, is free to interject if he feels any of these questions might infringe on your rights. This interview is also being digitally recorded with both audio and visual equipment. Do you understand, Police Constable Penhale?"

"Yes, sir."

"State your full name, officer number and rank for the record please."

"Police Constable Joseph Edward Penhale, 3021, of the Devon and Cornwall Police."

"Constable Penhale," says Investigator Manly. "Do you remember what you were doing the evening of May 5 at approximately 4:30 p.m.?"

"Yes, sir, I was knocking on the front door of the doctor's surgery, located on Roscarrock Hill in Portwenn."

"You seem extremely certain about the day and the time."

"That was the evening of the Devon and Cornwall Policemen's Ball, being held in Truro," says Joe. "And 4:30 p.m. was the time I had agreed to pick up Dr. Aylesworth, who accompanied me that evening."

"This would be Dr. Stirling Mason Aylesworth III?"

"Yes, sir."

"How did you know Dr. Aylesworth?"

"We were friends. She was a part-time GP in Portwenn and had moved to the village the previous August."

"Is it also true that you served for four weeks as her personal 24 hour security detail previous to this incident?"

"Yes sir, that is true. I had been removed from that detail about two months before and was back to my normal duties."

"Which is serving as a territorial officer for the Devon and Cornwall Police covering Portwenn and the surrounding area."

"Yes, sir."

"How well did you know Dr. Aylesworth?"

"Fairly well. We were good friends."

"How well? Were you romantically involved?"

Joe looks over at Michael who gives him a slight nod.

"Yes," says Joe.

"Were you romantically involved with Dr. Aylesworth at the time of your security detail?"

"No."

The investigator looks up at Joe with an unreadable expression.

"But by that evening you were?"

"Yes, sir."

"So on the evening of May 5, can you please describe what happened after you picked Dr. Aylesworth up from the doctor's surgery?"

Joe takes another sip from his glass of water. His shoulder is still hurting.

"We drove to Truro to attend the ball. We arrived around 6 p.m."

"What vehicle did you drive, constable?"

"My assigned Devon and Cornwall Police Land Rover, sir."

"This is a vehicle you drive in your capacity as a territorial officer?"

"Yes, sir."

"How long did you and Dr. Aylesworth stay at the Policemen's Ball?"

"We arrived around 6 o'clock and left at 1 a.m."

"Late night," comments Investigator Allen, the first time she has spoken since the questioning started.

"It was an enjoyable event, ma'am."

"Had you been drinking alcohol, constable?" she asks.

"Yes, I had two pints of lager over the course of the evening."

"Was Dr. Aylesworth drinking alcohol?"

"No, ma'am."

"Did you drive straight back to Portwenn?"

"No, ma'am."

"Where else did you go?"

"We drove to a lookout point on the cliffs outside of Portwenn."

"Why?"

Joe pauses, uncertain how to phrase his response.

"I wanted to show Stirl - I mean Dr. Aylesworth the stars. The view of the sky from that vantage point is quite spectacular and the stars were very bright that evening."

"How long were you there?"

"About an hour and a half, 90 minutes."

"That's a long time to be looking at the stars, constable," comments Investigator Manly.

"We did more than look at the stars, sir. Things became ... amorous between us," explains Joe.

The two investigators look at one another.

"How amorous?"

Joe glances at Michael again. He nods his head.

"We came close to having sexual relations," Joe says. "She wanted to but I stopped her. I suggested it might be more comfortable and enjoyable in a bed."

"What did you do next?"

"I drove to the surgery."

"About what time did you arrive?" asks Investigator Manly.

"Sometime between 3:30 and 4 a.m.," recalls Joe. "I carried Dr. Aylesworth from the Land Rover to the back door."

"Why?"

Joe stumbles a bit, trying to explain.

"I was trying to be romantic," he finally says.

"You reach the back door. Then what happened?"

"At the back door, Dr. Aylesworth asked to be set down," says Joe.

"Why?"

Joe pauses.

"Why?" repeats Investigator Manly.

"She wanted to kiss in the back garden before we went in," Joe says, blushing.

"The Devon and Cornwall Police force has provided us with footage from the security cameras that were in place and recording at the surgery that night," says Investigator Manly. "We're going to play you that footage."

Michael interjects.

"Investigator Manly, Investigator Allen, I fail to see how this footage is going to help in any way with your investigation. The amorous relations between an off-duty police constable and a village doctor in the back garden of one of their residences is a private matter and shouldn't be made a public spectacle."

Investigator Manly sighs.

"Mr. Aubrey, we have already had this discussion. Part of the investigation is establishing whether the deceased, Spencer Graham, was in the custody of Police Constable Penhale at the time of his death. In order to establish that, we need to determine whether the constable's actions that evening were in his capacity as an officer of the law. Hopefully this footage will help us with our decision."

"I would just like my concerns in this matter on the record," says Michael.

"They have been duly noted Mr. Aubrey, several times now."

A large screen has been set up on the left side of the room and Investigator Allen clicks some buttons on a computer connected to it. Suddenly, the screen is filled with a black and white view of the surgery's back garden, illuminated only by the outside light over the building's back door.

Joe tries to remain expressionless as he sees himself come on screen, carrying Stirling in his arms. She has her arms wrapped around his neck and is kissing him passionately at that moment. She says something in his ear. He sets her down.

"Thank god there's no sound," Joe thinks. "The visual is bad enough."

On the screen, Stirling and he are kissing passionately, lips, arms and hands everywhere; her leg goes around his back. He picks her up and holds her by the bottom, pressing her up against the door.

Joe looks at the two investigators.

Investigator Allen looks somewhat embarrassed while Investigator Manly scowls at the screen. Michael watches the footage expressionless - he's seen it dozens of times already.

Joe turns back to the screen just as Stirling turns the doorknob and the pair fall through the doorway and out of the camera lens' line of sight.

"I was hoping you could describe for us what happened in those last few frames before you disappear inside," says Investigator Manly.

Joe clears his throat and takes another drink.

"Stirl - Dr. Aylesworth thought we should enter the surgery. She opened the door and the force of both of us leaning against it made it open quicker than we expected. We sort of tripped or fell through the doorway."

"Did you fall to the ground?"

"No, I managed to keep us both upright. We were laughing," Joe adds softly. He clears his throat again and reaches for his glass. His shoulder is aching with pain and beads of sweat are starting to form on his forehead.

"What happened next?" asks Investigator Manly.

Joe pauses.

_You can do this,_ he thinks. _You can do this._

"We were laughing. And suddenly, Stirl - Dr. Aylesworth stopped. She tensed up, like there was something wrong. I immediately put her down. The dog was barking - Bucephalus - barking in a way I'd only heard once before - very loud and fierce. He was locked in the surgery's consulting room, a room he had been trained never to enter. Dr. Aylesworth appeared very upset by this."

Investigator Allen looks down at her notes.

"You said you had only heard the dog bark that fiercely once before. When was that?"

"A few months before. The night Spencer Graham tried to climb through Dr. Aylesworth's bedroom window."

She flips through her notes.

"Yes, DCI McDonald told us about that incident. You managed to wound Mr. Graham that evening with a rifle shot to the left arm."

"Yes, ma'am."

"But he was never found and the search for him was eventually called off."

"Yes, ma'am. DCI McDonald thought he was dead. That was when the protective duty was halted."

"Continue" says Investigator Manly.

Joe can feel the tension beginning to creep into his body. His shoulder is practically screaming in pain. He glances over at Michael, who gives him a questioning look.

"Dr. Aylesworth started walking further into the kitchen, away from me. I saw something out of the corner of my eye. I knew it was a gun," says Joe. "It happened so fast: remembering the back door was supposed to be locked, understanding there was a firearm in the room."

"The back door was supposed to be locked?" asks Investigator Allen.

"Yes. Stirling and I had an argument about the door several weeks before the Policemen's Ball. I discovered she wasn't locking it. I urged her to keep it locked at all times. When I picked her up the evening of the ball, she was delayed coming to the front door. She told me it was because she was making sure the back door was locked."

Investigator Manly writes something on his papers.

"Continue."

Joe takes a sip from his drink. His hand is shaking, rattling the ice against the glass loudly.

Michael stands up.

"Investigator Manly, Investigator Allen, I think now would be a good time to call a recess. My client is looking fatigued."

The pair look over at Joe and nod.

"We'll have a 30 minute recess and be back in the room by 11:00 a.m."

The two investigators get up and leave the room. Joe just sits in his chair, feeling completely exhausted.

"I don't think I'm going to be able to do this," he says, massaging his shoulder.

"We've been over it dozens of times," says Michael. "You can do it."

"I'm starting to choke up and I haven't even reached the attack," he says, his voice fading away at the end of the sentence. He takes another big gulp of water.

"Come on, let's get some air," says Michael, standing up.

The pair wander down a few halls and out the back entrance of the Devon and Cornwall Police force's Exeter headquarters. It's a beautiful sunny day and Joe puts on his peaked cap to shade his eyes with the brim. He continues to work the muscles in his right shoulder, slowly releasing the tension that has built up over the morning.

Michael pulls a half smoked cigar out of his pocket and puts it in his mouth, repeatedly flicking his gold lighter trying to get a flame.

"You'd better move away from the doors before you light that thing," says Joe, referring to a warning sign outlining how far away smokers are required to be from the building. "If you're too close, one of this lot will probably beat you with a baton."

Michael looks at Joe out of the corner of his eye and smiles. He walks further away from the building as he finally gets his lighter to engage. He takes a couple of deep puffs before he gets the cigar lit.

"It's a real bitch having to relive that nightmare, isn't it?" Michael asks, staring out at a small group of trees in the rear garden area of the large complex. He notices a small park bench and starts walking toward it.

Joe sighs.

"It's hard to put it all behind you when you're asked to relive it every few days," he says. "It's not only difficult to describe; it's also really hard on my sleep. The more I think about it, talk about it, the worse the nightmares are."

Michael sits down on the bench, leaving Joe enough room to sit beside him. They sit in companionable silence for a while, Michael puffing contentedly on his cigar.

"All this bureaucratic garbage will be over soon," he says, looking over at Joe. "And you'll be back to work and on the beat. Work is a good distraction but I think what you really need to conquer those nightmares is to spend your nights in the arms of someone you love and who loves you back."

Joe looks at Michael with surprise.

"Hey, it's amazing what a few long nights of shagging will help you forget," the lawyer says, puffing out a smoke ring.

"What are you trying to say?"

"I'm asking you when the hell are you going to do the deed, seal the deal, whatever the hell you want to call it?" Michael inquires, pointing at him with his cigar. "You've got this tidy hot totty doctor back home who's crazy about you, can't keep her eyes or her hands off you. But every night, you leave her alone and toddle on back to your empty bed in your lonely police station while she slides into her huge, empty bed. Are you barmy?"

Joe blushes at Michael's blunt approach.

"That's between Stirling and I," he says quietly.

Michael laughs and shakes his head.

"Okay Constable, whatever you say. But take it from a crazy gay lawyer who I'm pretty sure has a few more notches in his belt than you - love like that is hard to find and the fact the pair of you are frittering it away just holding hands and making moon-eyes at each other is a crime, a real crime. You know, I understand why Stirling is hesitant - she has that psycho boyfriend history. But you? I haven't figured you out yet."

Joe stares off into the distance for a moment, sighs, and turns to look at Michael.

"I want it to be her decision, for her to make the move. And I don't think she's ready to. With my ex-wife, I rushed things, I made her promises I couldn't keep. And she grew bored, found someone else and left me. I don't want to experience that again. I want Stirling to want to be with me because of who I am, not what she can make me. I'm a police constable based in a small fishing village in Cornwall - I'm not sure that's what she's looking for in life. She might think she loves me now but what about in a year, or two years, or five? Life doesn't change much in Portwenn. Would she be happy with that or would she be craving something more exciting?"

Joe smiles and laughs wistfully.

"She really is quite something!" he says, looking at Michael. "With her mind, her talent, her abilities, I wouldn't want to hold her back."

Michael stares at him for a moment and shakes his head.

"Well, Police Constable Joseph Penhale, I think you're an idiot. I admit Dr. Stirling Mason Aylesworth the Third has experienced her share of impulsive actions but when it comes to affairs of the heart, she is not one to make a decision on the spur of the moment. She might not be aware of it yet, but she's already decided what she wants and that, sir, is you. And you're sitting around wasting time worrying if you'll make her happy. You already make her happy, you moron! Can't you see it?"

Michael leans back in the bench and sighs. He's silent for a few moments, puffing on his cigar and staring off into space. He looks down at his watch and pats Joe on the back.

"It's time. Once more unto the breach, dear friend, once more."

He stubs out his cigar and together, he and Joe walk into police headquarters and back to the IPCC interrogation.

* * *

It's almost noon by the time Joe finishes describing his version of how events unfolded in the surgery during the early morning hours of May 6. He sits back in his chair, exhausted, and puts his head in his hands. The mental images are still there in his mind and he fights to get them out, to see something else. But he can't.

The two investigators are quiet for a few moments, as if struggling to take it all in.

"So you are saying it was the dog who ripped open Spencer Graham's throat?" asks Investigator Allen.

"Yes, ma'am," says Joe, looking up.

"And Spencer Graham stabbed the dog before he died?"

"Yes, ma'am."

After a 30-minute break for lunch, Investigator Manly leads Joe backwards and forwards over his testimony until he's feeling mentally exhausted.

In the middle of the afternoon, Investigator Allen takes over.

"I only have a few questions and then I think we're finished here, Police Constable Penhale."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Constable, did you feel your life was in danger?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Did you feel Dr. Aylesworth's life was in danger?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Did you kill Spencer Graham?"

"No, ma'am."

"Who or what do you believe killed Spencer Graham?"

"Dr. Aylesworth's dog, Bucephalus."

"At any point during the struggle in the surgery, did you feel you had custody of Spencer Graham; that he was in your control?"

"No, he was never in my custody. I was in his."

She pauses for a moment, writing down some notes.

"I think we're finished here," says Investigator Allen, gathering her papers.

After organizing their documents, the two investigators leave the room.

Joe rises wearily from his chair and turns to Michael.

"How badly did I do? I tried to stay in control but there's parts I have a difficult time describing."

"You did well, Joe, really well. Now, let's get you home."

Michael escorts him through the building and out the front door, where a black BMW is waiting. As soon as Joe is settled in the back and Michael in the front passenger seat, Leyland drives away.

Joe rests his head against the back of the leather seat and promptly falls asleep.

* * *

It's Michael's voice that wakes him about an hour later.

"Do you want to get dropped at the station first?"

Joe looks around and realizes the car is approaching the outskirts of Portwenn.

"No."

The BMW drives into the village, past the police station, over the hill and down to the harbour. A minute later, Leyland deftly backs in next to the Bentley.

Joe quickly gets out, climbs the stairs and enters the surgery.

"Hello?" he calls.

"We're upstairs," comes a man's voice. "And I need help."

Joe is bounding up the stairs as fast as he is capable of as Michael and Leyland enter the surgery. He walks into the master bedroom and stops in surprise, smiling at what he sees.

"Well, this looks interesting," he says, dropping into the reading chair beside the bed. "You definitely need help."

Christopher sits near the end of the bed, wearing a black T-shirt, red tartan boxer shorts and one black sock. He's glaring angrily at the cards he has fanned out in his hands. Most of his clothes lie in a pile beside the bed.

Stirling sits up against the pillows. Somehow, she is managing to hold a hand of five cards with her splinted and taped fingers. She is almost fully clothed in a pair of light-weight jim-jams, missing only her left sock.

She turns to Joe and smiles.

"He wanted to play strip poker," she says, quickly flashing her hand at him. Three kings and a pair of eights. "Now I've got him right where I want him."

Joe laughs.

"I'd give up, Christopher," he says, unbuttoning the top buttons of his dress tunic. "She cheats, you know."

Christopher looks up in shock. Stirling reaches over to her bedside table, grabs a magazine, quickly rolls it up and bats Joe lightly over the head with it.

"I do not!"

Joe laughs, leans back in the chair and closes his eyes.

"Was it really bad?" she asks quietly.

"Hmmmm," says Joe, not opening his eyes. "I have a feeling the nightmares will be back again tonight."

She reaches over and covers his hand with one of her splinted ones.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not," he says, looking at her and smiling.


	34. Chapter 33

Stirling is nervous as she sets her hands on the desk surface and splays out her fingers. The Doc leans over to look at them closer, bending and manipulating each digit from left to right and back again.

He grunts.

"Well, I think it's time," he says, looking up at Stirling, who is smiling widely.

"Aces!" she says.

He gives her a strange look and begins gathering various tools from the wheeled cart beside him. Soon he is ready.

Starting with Stirling's left hand, he begins snipping off the tape and removing splints and support wiring. Slowly, she watches her fingers reappear, looking pale and thin and strange.

The Doc finishes with her left hand and moves on to her right, removing all the bandages, splints and wire supports as well. When he's finished, she looks down at her two naked hands, the first time she's seen them in almost two months.

"Let's see how they work," the Doc says, carefully bending each digit. He watches Stirling's face for any signs of pain as he manipulates each finger. Not a flinch.

"Now you try bending them."

Stirling tries to make a fist with her left hand but only gets so far, her fingers cramping from lack of use. She tries again, feeling frustrated. She tries her right hand and has about the same results.

"Well, this bloody sucks!" she says angrily, trying over and over again to make a fist.

The Doc reaches out and covers her hands.

"Stop!" he commands. "You actually have very good range of motion in your fingers considering how long they've been splinted and wrapped. It's going to take time and patience, Dr. Aylesworth, but you will be able to get those fingers back in shape."

"I have made an appointment with a physiotherapist for you," he continues, writing down some information on a piece of paper before handing it to you. "Three times a week to start. I also suggest you get a spongy ball and start doing squeezing exercises when you have time. It will help building the strength back up."

He looks up at her sharply.

"No piano or violin until I or the physiotherapist give the okay. Understood?"

She sighs deeply.

"Yes, Chief."

"Good. Work hard at this and you could be back to work in a few weeks."

He stands up and opens the door for her.

"Congratulations, Dr. Aylesworth," he says. "You finally have your hands back."

She walks out into the waiting room and wiggles her fingers evilly at Morwenna, who bursts into laughter.

"They're back!" the receptionist cries with excitement.

"Next patient," barks the Doc.

Stirling decides to share her big news with Joe and the boys, who are probably down at the police station working legal magic.

It's been a week since Joe's appearance before the IPCC and the rumblings coming from Michael's sources are suggesting the investigation is going to be concluded early with a very favourable outcome for the Portwenn police constable. But they aren't celebrating yet. And there is still the internal review with the Devon and Cornwall Police to consider. Joe and Michael travelled to Exeter two days ago to meet and answer questions with the officer assigned to that process.

As Stirling walks down the hill and past the harbour, she marvels at the number of holidaymakers milling in the streets, enjoying an ice cream by the harbour, having a pint on The Crab's outdoor terrace or exploring the tidal pools further out. The weather has been fantastic so far this summer and the villages and beaches in the area are packed, especially on weekends.

As she begins the steep climb up the hill toward the police station, Stirling realizes that for the past few days, she's actually been feeling very good. There are no more twinges or aches or pains when she moves too quickly or without thinking. She and Joe are ranging even farther afield during their walks, actually covering several kilometres in a morning.

Stirling is looking up the hill, smiling to herself about the progress she is making in her recovery, when she notices a familiar form on his way down the hill toward her. Joe obviously spots her at the same time because his pace quickens and he starts jogging toward her.

"Obviously, he's feeling as healthy as I am," she thinks as they eventually meet in the middle of the street.

Surprisingly, Joe hugs her under the arms and spins her around several times in an exuberant display of excitement before setting her down and kissing her ardently. This attracts the attention of numerous people walking up and down the street, holidaymakers and residents alike.

"Well, hello to you too," Stirling laughs when they break apart. "What brought that on?"

"This!" he says, pulling a folded piece of paper triumphantly from his pocket and holding it aloft.

She grabs for it but he's too quick for her, pulling it up out of her reach.

"What is it?" she demands, trying for the paper again, laughing.

"Well, if you calm down, I'll show you," he says, smiling and giving her a quick kiss.

He unfolds the document, which she can see is typed on IPCC letterhead, and holds it up for her to read.

"The IPCC is dropping the investigation," Joe says excitedly. "And the commission is - I quote - highly recommending the Devon and Cornwall Police do the same with its internal review of subject officer Police Constable Joseph Penhale - end of quote."

Stirling's eyes flash over the document. She looks up at Joe with that beautiful, big smile he loves so much.

"Aces!" she shouts, actually causing several people on the street to startle and scream in surprise.

She throws her arms around Joe and laughs as he picks her up again. She wraps her legs around his torso as he spins her again, and she squeals like a little girl.

"Well, I never!" says an old lady, who gives the pair a dirty look as she walks by.

"Too bad!" says Stirling, her forehead pressed against Joe's. "Maybe if she did, she'd be less grumpy!"

Joe laughs, kissing her again.

"Rent a room, Penhale!" someone shouts from nearby and Joe and Stirling laugh, pulling away from one another reluctantly.

It's then he notices her hands.

"The splints are gone!" he says in amazement, grabbing both her hands to admire them.

"I was just on my way to tell you," she says smiling. "The Chief removed them this morning."

"Beautiful," he whispers, lifting her hands and kissing both of them.

"I want to celebrate," Joe says, putting his arm through her's and walking back toward the harbour.

"What do you want to do?"

"Well, it involves you," he says.

"Really?" she asks, arching an eyebrow and looking saucy.

"You can say no if you want to," he assures her, halting in the street to face her.

Stirling laughs.

"I want to know what I'm agreeing or not agreeing to."

Joe leans forward, moving his mouth to her left ear.

"I'd like you to teach me how to drive the Triumph," he whispers.

Stirling stands still for a moment, processing the request. At first she feels a flare of annoyance in her belly. That was not what she was expecting.

"That's how you want to celebrate?" she asks, her annoyance coming through.

Joe smiles at her.

"Why, how do you think we should celebrate?"

She blushes, feeling embarrassed, unwilling to put her wants into words.

She lifts her chin determinedly.

"I'll teach you. When do you want to start?"

"This evening," he says.

"You're on."

* * *

Later that day, after the tourists in the streets have thinned out and life in Portwenn is calmer, Stirling and Joe stand beside the Triumph – now minus it's sidecar – in the police station car park. PC Garrett, flanked by Christopher and Michael, sits on the station's front stoop, ready to watch the action.

Stirling hands Joe a helmet with goggles and a leather jacket.

"You need to wear these," she explains. "It will protect you if you fall. I strongly suggest you don't fall, especially with this bike. You both mean a lot to me."

Joe takes the jacket and puts it on. It's a man's jacket with Triumph written across the back. It fits him perfectly.

"Whose is it?" he asks, zipping it up.

"It was my father's," says Stirling.

Joe looks up sharply.

"Are you sure you want me to wear it?"

She smiles.

"If you learn how to ride this bike and get your licence, you can keep it," she says.

Joe looks down and admires the leather.

"Thank you," he says softly, embarrassed.

"Okay, time to learn about the Triumph," says Stirling, getting down to business.

The first lesson, she goes over the basics, safety equipment, hand and foot controls, shifting, turning, and balancing around corners. By the end, she has Joe riding the motorcycle in circles in the car park with ease.

For the next two evenings, she continues Joe's Triumph lessons. In the mornings, they walk along the cliff top, and later have lunch together. The afternoons are spent on physiotherapy. Stirling is amazed by the progress she is making. After only two days of exercises and ball-squeezing, she can almost make a fist.

By Joe's third lesson, she has him driving the Triumph around Portwenn with her clinging on behind him.

The Doc and Louisa are sitting in the side garden of their home, enjoying the evening sun, when the Triumph roars by the first time. James Henry, who is playing with his toys nearby, looks up and laughs.

"Bike," he says clearly.

Louisa claps her hands and praises him.

"That's right!" she says. "That's Aunt Stirling on her motorcycle."

The Doc looks up from his medical journal the second time the machine comes by, disturbed by the loud engine and uncontrolled laughter.

"That's not Dr. Aylesworth," he says to Louisa. "There's two people on that motorcycle."

Louisa looks up quickly.

"Well, that's her Triumph," she says.

The third time the bike goes by, they're both watching.

"Oh my good god!" says the Doc, as they roar by, more laughter echoing off the cliffs. "She's lost her bloody mind! Penhale's driving!"

Louisa smiles and bends back to her book.

"I can't believe she's letting that idiot drive that machine," he rants. "It's an expensive antique!"

"I'm sure he's being careful," Louisa says calmly.

"I'm not sure if he even knows the meaning of the word careful," he mutters as the Triumph races by again.

"Hiya Chief! Louisa! James!" Stirling shouts from behind Joe, letting go with one arm to wave. The shift in weight makes the motorcycle's front wheel waver until Joe manages to get it back under control. Stirling screams with laughter, causing the Doc to flinch.

"I hope this isn't going to continue all evening," he grumbles.

Louisa laughs quietly.

* * *

That weekend, Joe passes the motorcycle Compulsory Basic Training course. The next day, he writes his theory test and drives the practical using the Triumph. In celebration of earning his motorcycle licence, Stirling lets him drive it home from Bodmin.

Michael and Christopher are waiting for them as they roar up to the police station.

"Well, he did it," says Stirling proudly.

Michael hands Joe an envelope.

"It's from the Devon and Cornwall Police," Joe says, ripping open the back flap. He pulls a letter from the envelop and unfolds it, his eyes quickly reading the contents. He frowns slightly and starts over again, confused.

"I don't understand," he says, handing the document to Michael.

The lawyer quickly scans the letter and grins.

"Not only is the Devon and Cornwall Police dropping the internal review of our PC Penhale, they're also giving him a medal. And a promotion."

Michael reaches out and shakes Joe's hand.

"Congratulations, Sergeant," he booms, laughing.

Joe's shocked speechless. He looks over at Stirling and is greeted by that big, all encompassing smile again. She wraps her arms around him, jumping up and down in excitement at the same time.

"Aces!" he says weakly, causing Stirling to laugh.

"That's wonderful," she says, reaching out to grab the document. "Is there going to be a ceremony?"

Michael moves it out of her reach as he scans the contents again.

"It states here that Sergeant Penhale's promotion takes effect immediately, including his increase in pay and additional benefits."

Michael looks up and waggles his eyebrows.

"He will be formally presented with his sergeant stripes and medal for bravery - ooooh, bravery - in a formal ceremony at Exeter Police Headquarters the evening of July 5 at 7:30 p.m."

Michael looks at his watch.

"That's in about two weeks time."

He slaps Joe on the back and laughs.

"I told you we could do it," he says in that bragging tone Stirling knows only too well.

"I just don't know how to thank you, Michael," Joe says seriously, shaking the lawyer's hand. "I'm pretty sure you saved my arse."

"Damn right I did," Michael says, ever so humbly. "Personally, I enjoy this part of the letter the best: 'It's hoped this news will bring to an end any correspondence and other dealings between the Devon and Cornwall Police force and Michael Aubrey, Esquire.' They can't bloody well wait to get rid of me!"

"I can't imagine why," says Stirling dryly, wrapping her arm around Joe's waist.

"This calls for a celebration," Michael crows. "The Crab and Lobster, first round's on me."

The four of them walk down to the harbour together, meeting Leyland as he sits at the outdoor patio enjoying a Guinness. Michael and Christopher spend the night getting completely pissed - much to the amusement of everyone at The Crab - while Stirling drinks only ice water and Joe has just a few pints.

"You do know why she only drinks ice water, don't you?" Michael asks Joe, barely able to focus on the newly promoted sergeant.

Stirling sighs and shakes her head.

"Don't believe a word he says when he gets like this," she warns.

"She told me she doesn't drink so her mind is clear in case of a medical emergency," says Joe. "She also mentioned something about being allergic to alcohol."

"Allergic!" shouts Michael, laughing. "Allergic! I think it goes way beyond an allergic reaction, don't you Panda?"

"Michael, you know, sometimes you can be a very mean drunk," she says.

"When Ling-Ling was in med school, money was tight. Sure she had scholarships but she still had to pay for food and rent. And she wouldn't take any help from me. So she got a job singing with a pub band in Chelsea. She was a hot little thing, in a tight little black dress and sexy high heels with this jaunty little hat. And she would sing her heart out to a bar full of plastered university students from all over London, who really just wanted to take her home and have their way with her."

"God, you make is sound so sordid!" she mutters.

"Well, one night someone decided it would be absolutely hilarious if they poured a bit of ice-cold vodka into Stirling's ice water, normally kept on the piano. Between songs, she would take sips. The bar staff usually kept it full of ice water for her but the practical joker also kept it properly mixed with alcohol. It took about two songs before the effects began to appear. She seemed a bit more animated on the stage, she was interacting a bit more with the audience. By the third song, she's getting downright sexy up there, rubbing up against the microphone stand, playing with the lead guitarist's hair, putting her hands down the drummer's shirt. You can tell the band is baffled but the crowd is loving it. By the fourth song, it's getting dangerous, men are jumping on the stage to grope her. The bouncers can't keep the crowd under control. So the owner calls the plods in. And that's when the real fun begins. Somehow Stirling gets her hands on a Met cap and a truncheon. It all goes downhill from there. The band shuts everything down and manages to get her the hell out of there just in time for the anaphylactic shock to kick in. She spent two days in the hospital after getting her stomach pumped - poor kid."

"If you want a hellion in the bedroom, get Stirling drunk," advises Michael. "But be prepared to have her hospitalized for a few days after."

Stirling sits there quietly, giving Michael the dirtiest look possible.

"I can't believe you just shared that story," she says. "But if you're going to tell it, you should at least tell it right. Guess who the practical joker was spiking my drinks?"

She points across the table at Michael.

"I still haven't forgiven you for that, you bastard," she says to the drunk lawyer, who immediately passes out, thumping his face on the table.

"Wonderful!" she says, laughing.

"Don't worry, Miss Stirling," says Leyland. "They can spend the night sleeping it off here. There's a couple of extra rooms available for them upstairs."

"Thank you, Leyland," she says, giving the old man a kiss on the cheek. "You always know what to do."

"I have lots of experience, Miss Stirling."

"I'm sure you do," mutters Joe as he escorts Stirling out of the bar, which is just starting to get rocking for the late, late crowd.

Outside, the evening has cooled but still maintains some of the warmth from the summer day. The sea smells amazing and the heady aroma of wild flowers wafts down the street periodically from the hills surrounding the village.

Stirling and Joe stand by the harbour car park, watching the tide retreat far out into the sea. They stand together quietly, enjoying the evening.

"I'll walk you home," Joe says eventually, taking Stirling's hand and leading her back toward the light.

"Do you want to do something different tomorrow?" he asks as they climb the hill to the surgery.

"Like what?"

"Let's go to the beach," he suggests.

Stirling pauses, uncertain, making Joe stop.

"What?"

"I haven't been in a bathing suit since – before," she says quietly. "I'm a bit self conscious about it; you know, the scars."

Joe looks at her, reaching out and touching her cheek.

"You're the most beautiful woman I have ever met," he says. "Scars and everything."

"I don't think I'm ready yet," she says, looking down.

Joe's silent for a moment, thinking.

"I know a place, a private beach, where we can go and be alone," he says, tipping up her chin. "There won't be any other people there – I promise. It's a bit of a challenge to get to but worth it. Are you up for it?"

She looks into his eyes.

"Yes."

"Great! I'll pack us a lunch. Bring your bathing suit and a towel for our morning walk. We can get there via the cliff trail."

"See you tomorrow," Stirling says with a smile.

"Tomorrow," Joe says kissing her tenderly goodnight.


	35. Chapter 34

Stirling stands in front of her open dresser drawer and feels a horrible sense of panic settle in the pit of her stomach.

It's been more than a year since she's even thought of wearing a bathing suit and her choice of swimming costume reflect that. In one hand, she clutches the dreaded string bikini, a sexy black collection of what appear to be various triangles sewn together. Christopher somehow convinced her to buy the tiny scrap of material during a shopping spree in London not long before she came to work in Portwenn. It had obviously occurred during one of her rare moments of retail weakness. In her other hand, she holds her ancient, stretched, much-loved, two-piece Speedo, complete with racing back, pilling and material snags.

These are her choices. And she has 15 minutes before Joe is expected through the front door.

She sighs, grabs the Speedo and puts it on, covering it with a T-shirt and khaki walking shorts. She's pulling on her socks and tying up her hiking boots when she hears the front door open downstairs and Morwenna say good morning to Joe.

_Shit!_ she thinks. _He's early!_

She grabs her rucksack and shoves a swim towel, a couple of magazines, a book and sun cream inside. She's about to pass her dresser when she opens the drawer and grabs the black string bikini and shoves it in as well.

_Better to be prepared_, she thinks.

She trots down the stairs into the waiting room, where Joe is waiting on the front window seat, his rucksack sitting beside him. She laughs when she sees him.

"What?" he asks.

"I'm sorry, I've never really seen you in a T-shirt and shorts before," she says, trying to control her mirth. "Especially a shirt that proudly claims: I See Guilty People."

He looks down at his novelty T-shirt, baffled by what she finds so funny.

"But I do."

Several people sitting in the waiting room also snicker.

Stirling grabs Joe by the wrist and leads him past the front door and into the piano room.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to that," she says, walking into the kitchen, opening her refrigerator and grabbing two bottles of water to add to her rucksack.

"Used to what, my shirt?" Joe asks, sitting down at the piano bench, watching her bustle about.

"Having people listen in to my conversations," she says, grabbing a package of HobNobs. "One minute I'm in my private home, the next I have a live studio audience."

"Well, it is a full waiting room. You can't expect them not to listen."

"I know. It's just - hard to get used to."

She shrugs into her rucksack straps and stands in the middle of the kitchen, arms out.

"Am I suitably attired for our trek?"

"Do you have a bathing suit?"

"Yes."

"Then you're suitably attired. Let's go," Joe says, exiting out the back door of the surgery.

They climb the hill to the beginning of the cliff path and start walking west, away from the village. As they pass Bucephalus' cairn, Stirling stops and places a wild flower on the boulder that holds his name plaque.

For the first half hour or so, they walk quietly together, side-by-side, enjoying the warm sun, the fantastic view of the sea and the sound of the sea birds. They pass a few trekkers travelling toward Portwenn, many waving and saying hello.

"Are you excited?" Stirling suddenly asks.

Joe looks at her with a puzzled expression.

"Sure, I'm looking forward to swimming and lying on the beach with you."

Stirling laughs.

"No, I mean are you excited about the promotion, the upcoming ceremony?"

He looks down at the ground for a moment as he walks, appearing to collect his thoughts.

"I'm glad the uncertainty, the threat of the IPCC investigation and the internal review, is over," he says, looking up into the distance ahead. "As for the rest, I don't know. I'm pleased with the promotion; I've wanted to be a sergeant for awhile. And it's an honour to be receiving a medal. But I don't feel particularly brave and I don't believe I've really earned anything."

Stirling stops walking immediately while Joe carries on for another 10 feet or so before he realizes she's no longer beside him. He turns around looking for her, surprised to find her behind him.

"What's the matter?" he asks, puzzled by her aggressive stance: face serious, chin up, arms folded across her chest, foot tapping.

She marches toward Joe rapidly, making him inadvertently back up several steps out of reflex.

"Listen here, Joe Penhale," she says angrily, poking him in the chest. "I don't appreciate listening to you sell yourself short. You deserve that medal and you deserve that promotion. What you did that day was brave and selfless and deserves to be rewarded. And, from what I've experienced since arriving in Portwenn, you are skilled, dependable, and enthusiastic at your job - maybe a little too enthusiastic sometimes but that's not important. I believe up to now you've been over-looked by your superiors because no one expects anything exciting or dangerous to occur in a small village like Portwenn. But it did and you were there and you made a difference and you deserve to be recognized for it. And don't let anyone, including yourself, try to convince you otherwise."

Joe rubs his chest in the area where she poked him.

"You know, that really hurt," he says, looking down the neck of his shirt to see if there's a mark. "That's probably going to bruise."

"Good!" says Stirling emphatically, marching past Joe. "Maybe that will help you remember what I just said."

He watches her march ahead: arms pumping enthusiastically; her long, muscular legs stretching out to cover the ground as quickly as possible without jogging; her head held high, and her chin jutting stubbornly. He shakes his head and smiles, trotting after her to catch up.

"You in a hurry?" he asks, performing an awkward skipping-trot just to keep pace with her.

She says nothing, just looks straight ahead.

"You might want to consider slowing down; you're going to wear yourself out," he suggests a few minutes later.

Her pace never falters.

Eventually, Joe stops. Stirling marches on another 20 feet before she halts, turning to look at him.

"What's wrong? You can't keep up?" she taunts, an edge to her voice.

"No," he says, shaking his head.

"Are you all tuckered out?"

"No."

"Thirsty? Hungry?"

"No. No"

She stands there silently for a few moments, arms folded across her chest, staring at him.

"Then why the hell have you stopped?" she asks, flapping her arms in a sign of frustration.

"Because this is where we turn off the path," he says, pointing to a lightly marked trail heading down a shallow gully toward the sea.

Stirling stands still for several seconds before she bursts into laughter.

"You bloody bastard!" she cries, walking back toward him. "How long were you going to let me stand here being a tetchy bitch?"

"I don't know; I knew you'd figure it out eventually," he says, smiling. "You being a genius doctor and all."

He hugs Stirling when she gets closer, giving her a quick kiss before she can squirm free.

"You're very cute when you get all angry and outraged," he teases, leading the way down the secondary path.

The trail is definitely not well travelled and it switches back and forth down the gully on a gradual incline. At the bottom, Joe veers off to the west, following an even more overgrown path that eventually ends by a large rock outcropping.

"Follow me," Joe says, pushing through some scrubby underbrush beside the rock formation.

As she follows him, Stirling stops in disbelief as she spots an arched entryway to a shallow tunnel hiding just around the corner of the outcropping. White sand, rock and water are clearly visible on the other side of the hole through the rock.

"They used to mine granite and slate around here," explains Joe, smiling at her amazement. "They would bring the granite by boat from small islands off the shore. This access tunnel was made to help move the rock from the beach to the cliff top quicker."

Taking her hand, Joe leads her through the short tunnel and out onto the pristine, secluded beach. It's sheltered between two rocky cliff faces and is shaped in the form of a quarter moon. Even with the tide in, a small stretch of sand remains dry. At this time of the day, the tide is coming in but is only half way to recovering the sand and rock pools it originally uncovered. The sound of the waves is calming and not another human being is in sight.

"It's beautiful," says Stirling, smiling.

She removes her rucksack and sets it on top of a large rock, well above the reach of the incoming tide. She also unties her hiking boots and pries them off with the toe of her other foot, shoving her socks inside to keep them safe and dry. She sets the boots next to the rucksack and begins to walk toward the water.

Joe leans against the rock and watches her slowly approach the surf, which is fairly calm in the sheltered cove. She walks in to the water fearlessly, laughing at the cold shock, which she quickly becomes accustomed to. She wades out deeper, wetting the cuffs of her walking shorts with her daring as the waves splash higher on her body. Suddenly she disappears under the water, falling backwards.

Joe moves quickly, kicking off his boots and running out to her in the surf, where she is laughing and struggling to stand up again. He grabs her under the arms from behind and drags her into shallower water until she's able to find her feet again. She bends over, coughing and laughing, soaked from head to foot.

"What happened?" Joe asks. "Are you hurt?"

"I slipped on a rock, of all things," Stirling says. "One minute I was standing on sand, the next I'm on a slippery rock. And down I went."

She looks down at her soaked clothing, grabs the hem of her T-shirt and lifts it over her head. She lays it flat on a rock to dry in the sun, before she steps out of her khaki shorts, which she places next to the shirt.

Joe stares at her in her bathing suit, her wet hair wild around her face, water dripping onto her shoulders.

"You look beautiful," he says, walking up to her and putting his arms around her.

The touch of his warm hands on her cool bare skin makes Stirling shiver with excitement.

"Are you cold?" he asks.

"No," she says, teeth chattering. "Just excited. And nervous"

He leans down and kisses her, his hands touching her bare back. She kisses him back, putting her arms around him and lowering them to the hem of his T-shirt. She pulls it up and over his head, only pulling away from the kiss to clear the material past his face. She claims his lips again as she tosses his T-shirt on a rock next to her clothing.

"What are you doing?" he asks pulling back from her, laughing.

"Well, I thought if I was going to stand around half naked, you should too," she says, marvelling at the feel of her bare skin against his.

"Are those your swim trunks?" she asks, pointing to the shorts he's wearing.

"Yes."

"Okay, I won't rip those off," she says with a laugh, moving her body quickly out of his reach and sprinting toward the water.

Joe runs after her.

It's not much of a race considering Stirling's history of breathing issues but she makes it farther into the surf than either one of them expect before he catches up to her. Joe wraps his arms around her waist from behind, making her scream with laughter, and then tackles her into the waves. They both disappear under the water and reappear seconds later, drenched and laughing. He grabs her and pulls him to her, kissing her fervidly. She hooks her arms around his shoulders and kisses him back like a wanton hussy. She feels his hand moving lower down her back, approaching her bum, and she moves her body quickly, setting her foot behind his and shifting her weight forward until he falls backward into the water.

She laughs and makes a run for it, racing parallel with the beach, leaping through the water. But he's too quick, eventually catching up with her and pulling her down under the water for a dunking.

They play in the waves for at least half an hour, dunking and tackling each other until they are both exhausted. They float on their backs in a calm area of the cove until Joe eventually heads into shore, opening his rucksack and shaking a large blanket out over the sand. He pulls containers from the bag and sets them on the blanket, peaking Stirling's interest as her belly grumbles with hunger. She comes out of the water and grabs her own towel, drying her hair as best she can.

"Come sit down and have some lunch," Joe says, patting a corner of the blanket.

Stirling sits cross-legged as she watches him put together a roast beef sandwich on thick slabs of bread with slices of cheese. He hands it to her on a plastic plate with a big dollop of pasta salad and a spoon. Stirling eats like she's starving, enjoying every bite of her lunch.

"That was delicious," she says, falling backward on the blanket to lie in the sun and dry.

After cleaning up and stowing the leftovers, Joe lies down beside her.

"Good morning?" he asks her, rolling on his side to face her.

"Wonderful morning," she answers, facing him in the same position.

They look at one another for a few moments and reach for each other at the same time, melding their bodies together in a passionate kiss. It's a hungry embrace, arms tangled, pulling each other closer together. Joe rolls on top of Stirling, managing to keep them both on the blanket. He straddles her body while she rakes her fingers through his hair, pulling him harder against her lips. He moves his mouth down her jaw and chin to her neck and she breathes heavily in his ear as he kisses her there.

"Look Mommy," a child's voice echoes across the beach. "They're wrestling just like you and Da do."

A woman gasps loudly.

Joe and Stirling both freeze at the same moment. As he lifts his head up to look, she tips hers back, trying to catch a glimpse of the intruders upside down.

A young woman, clutching the hand of a little boy of about five or six years of age, has appeared on the beach, obviously following the same path down that Joe and Stirling travelled. Close behind them is a grey-haired couple, obviously the little boy's Gramps and Gran, carrying garishly coloured beach bags and a cooler.

Joe quickly rolls off Stirling and sits up, giving a friendly little wave in their direction.

"All right," he calls.

They just stare.

Stirling rolls over onto her stomach so she can have a right-side-up view of the new arrivals, who stare for a few moments more before turning and moving swiftly toward the other side of the beach, as far from them as possible.

Stirling climbs up onto her knees, watching them migrate to the other end of the cove.

"So much for the private, secluded beach," she mutters, turning to Joe. They look at each other and start laughing, trying hard not to be too loud. He grabs her and wrestles her to the ground.

"So he wants to see wrestling, does he?"

Stirling shrieks and shifts her weight, wrapping her legs around Joe's torso and using the momentum of her body to flip him on his back. She sits on top of him, pinning his arms under her knees.

"I think you've forgotten that I am well versed in jujutsu and kickboxing," she says, bending over Joe's squirming body and kissing him on the nose.

She leaps from him and runs down the beach, away from the new visitors. Joe is right behind her, leaping forward and tackling her into the surf and under the water again. They come up sputtering. Joe lifts Stirling out of the water kicking and screaming and throws her into the next wave.

She doesn't come up.

Joe stands for a few moments waiting, expecting her head to pop up somewhere else, but it doesn't. He moves forward slowly toward the spot he threw her, fear cramping his stomach.

"Stirling?" he calls, moving out into deeper water. "Stirling?"

He feels a sense of panic set in.

Suddenly, something grabs his leg and he's pulled under. He comes up yelling and thrashing but Stirling has already moved well beyond his reach as she heads quickly into shore. She hears him running up behind her through the surf and she spins, setting her body in a defence position, arms and fists ready. He stops, just beyond her reach.

"You just scared the hell out of me," he says angrily, panting. "I thought you had drowned or something."

"You can't get rid of me that easily, Joe Penhale," Stirling says, struggling not to start laughing.

He moves toward her and she jumps forward, grabbing his arm and flipping him over her hip, flat on his back into the water.

"What the hell!" he says sputtering, climbing to his feet.

She's still in her fighting stance, ready for his next move.

"Okay, enough with the judo," he says, holding up his hands. "You win."

"It's not judo; it's jujutsu," she says, putting her fist into the palm of her other hand and bowing toward him.

Joe makes a leap toward her and she pivots quickly, causing him to sail by her and splash head first into the water. She quickly follows him, grabbing his arm and helping him up out of the shallows.

"Are you okay?" she asks, checking his head for cuts and abrasions.

He grabs her around the waist and kisses her.

"Gotcha!"

He scoops her over his shoulder and carries her into shore as she laughs and squirms. Together, they collapse in a heap on the beach blanket.

"You barmy tart," Joe says, sitting up and pulling her body back against his chest.

"You silly git," Stirling teases back, leaning into him.

They sit together comfortably, snuggling against each other, enjoying the sun and watching the tide slowly come in. Stirling tucks her head under Joe's chin and closes her eyes, relaxing as he supports her with his arm. She's almost asleep when she hears a little voice.

"Hello."

She opens her eyes to find the little boy standing in front of her and Joe.

"Why, hello," she says back, glancing quickly over to where his family is camped out. Gramps and Gran appear to have fallen asleep while his mum is deeply engrossed in a novel. "Are you exploring the beach?"

He nods his head very seriously.

"My name's Gavin," he says.

"My name is Stirling and this is my friend, Joe."

She glances up and notices that Joe's eyes have closed.

"I think he's have a little nap right now. He must be knackered from playing in the water and wrestling."

Gavin smiles.

"My Gramps and Gran are sleeping too. Gramps snores so loud."

Stirling smiles back.

"I'm lucky; he's not too loud."

Gavin nods his head again and then looks down at the sand before returning his gaze to Stirling.

"How did you hurt yourself?" he asks, pointing to her arms.

Immediately, Stirling feels tension return to her body. She had forgotten all about her scars. Running about on the beach with Joe, splashing through the waves, lying in the sun and in his arms, she never once thought of the angry lines that run down the inside of her arms or the lines that mar each side of her torso. She suddenly feels exposed, naked, and self-conscious.

She looks down at the scar tissue.

"I was cut with a knife," she says quietly.

The little boy stands still for a moment, staring at her arms, and then nods his head sagely.

"Did it hurt a lot?" he asks.

"Yes," Stirling whispers truthfully.

"Did he get hurt the same way?" Gavin asks, pointing at Joe's arms, wrapped lightly around her.

She nods her head, feeling tears beginning to sting her eyes.

The little boy stands in front of her quietly.

"Gavin!" a voice screams from across the beach, causing the boy, Stirling and Joe to startle. Joe tightens his arms around her, moving as if to protect her from some unseen force.

The little boy gives one last look before running across the sand back to his mother.

"I must have fallen asleep," Joe says, yawning.

He pulls her body closer to him.

"Are you okay?"

Stirling sniffles, tears dripping down her nose, and shakes her head.

"What happened?" he asks, turning her head and wiping at her tears. "Stirling, why the tears?"

"We should go," she says quietly, attempting to rise. But Joe pulls her body back to his.

"Not until you tell me what's wrong. Was it the little boy?"

Stirling is silent for a moment, and then nods her head.

"He asked me about my arms, about the scars," she says. "Being here with you, enjoying the water and the sand and the sun, I had forgotten all about them. It was stupid of me."

"Why?"

"Because that's all people will ever see, the marks, the scars. And they will stare and have questions and judge me because of them. And you."

Joe pulls her back close to his chest, kissing her head.

"Bullocks!" he says emphatically. "What they see is a beautiful, intelligent, talented woman with a wonderful sense of humour who just happens to have a few battle marks. And, like me, they won't even see those after awhile. When you look at me, is that what you see, the scars?"

She shakes her head.

"Exactly. I don't see yours at all. I just see you - beautiful, beautiful Stirling."

He shifts her head and kisses her tenderly, pulling her close. She relaxes against him and puts her arms around his shoulders, tickling the back of his neck with her fingers. Joe falls back on the beach blanket, pulling her down with him. He snuggles her body beside him, his arms cradling her.

"Just relax and stay here with me," he says, petting her hair. "You have nothing to worry about."

They lie together in the shade of the rocks, arms around one another, and enjoy the warmth, the slight breeze and the sound of the waves.

A few hours later, they reluctantly gather their towels and beach blanket and pack them away. They pull on their socks and hiking boots and begin the climb back up to the cliff path.

It takes them a little over an hour to walk back to Portwenn.

"So, do you like my beach?" Joe asks as they enter through the back door into the surgery.

"'Your' beach? There appears to be a few more people than you who know about 'your' beach," Stirling says laughing as she sets her rucksack on the kitchen table. "But I like it very much."

Joe stands in front of her for a moment, holding her hand.

"I've been cleared to return to work," he says quietly. "I start back the beginning of July."

Stirling feels her stomach drop in disappointment. She has been enjoying their time together and now it must end.

"That's in just a few days," she says quietly, reaching out a hand to touch his face.

"I know," he says, caressing that hand. "I want to spend the rest of my free time with you, running through the water, eating picnic lunches, soaking up the sun, and lying on the beach beside you."

"Deal," she says, smiling.

He leans forward and kisses her tenderly.

"I'll be here to pick you up at half nine tomorrow morning."


	36. Chapter 35

For the next few days, Stirling and Joe live a life of zero responsibility and complete relaxation. Every morning, they walk to "their" beach, play in the surf and the sand, enjoy the sun, explore the cove and some small cliff caves, eat delicious lunches prepared by Joe, laugh and talk about everything but the future, before lying together on the beach blanket to nap in the heat of the afternoon.

Sometimes they have company but most days it's just the two of them and the crying seabirds.

Every evening, they gather their belongings and climb the gully path before walking hand-in-hand back to Portwenn. One night they eat dinner together at The Crab and Lobster, trying their hardest to shut out the noise and talk of the other patrons, who watch them and smile knowingly. Another night, they have dinner at the surgery, later curling up together on Stirling's bed to read. And another night, they eat at the police station apartment with PC Garrett, Michael and Christopher and watch a film.

On Joe's final day before returning to duty, the pair laugh and play in the waves, which are a bit higher than usual. As Stirling runs through the surf, she feels Joe reach for her, his fingers grabbing the back of her swimsuit. And, with what sounds like a sigh of defeat, the shoulder straps of Stirling's ancient Speedo finally give way.

"Shit!" she screams before falling in the water, scrambling to find the ends of the broken straps.

"What happened?" asks a winded Joe, bent over, bracing his arms against his thighs.

"You've ruined my bathing suit!" Stirling says, laughing, her fingers finally grasping the strap ends and pulling them up to cover herself. She turns her back to him and makes sure everything is properly covered before she stands up, heading back to shore.

"I did what?" he asks incredulously, following after her.

"When you grabbed for me, the straps on my old bathing top gave way," she explains, digging in her rucksack for her shirt. It's then she notices the black string bikini buried in the bottom. She pulls out the two pieces and considers them.

_Why not?_ she thinks. _We're the only ones here; it covers what's necessary._

She turns to look triumphantly at Joe.

"I have a back-up plan. You stay here."

He watches with curiosity as Stirling walks to the far end of the beach and hides behind a large rock. She works quickly, stripping off the ruined swim top and tying on the bikini. She does the same with the bottoms. She checks herself over quickly, making sure everything is covered properly, before grabbing the remains of her Speedo and walking back down the beach toward Joe.

As he watches her approach, he feels something stirring deep in the pit of his stomach. Joe's felt it in Stirling's presence before but not really to the level he experiences it now. It can only be described as raw, visceral lust. He feels his body respond to the visual stimuli of her attired in the most scandalously brief string bikini he's ever seen. And he's more than a bit disconcerted by the emotions he is feeling.

Joe has always prided himself on having strong self control, an important quality in a police constable. Even when goaded and pushed, he never loses his temper; when teased and made fun of, he never loses his good nature; even when kissed and physically stimulated by his ex-wife after years apart, he maintained control, rebuffing her advances and doing the honourable thing. But watching Stirling walk toward him, barely dressed, Joe starts to doubt his self discipline.

"What do you think?" she asks with a smile once she reaches him.

She spins in a small circle in front of him, showing off every angle of the tiny outfit. She stops the rotation facing him, a curious look on her face.

"Are you okay?"

Joe feels like he is going to explode. He wants to grab Stirling, force her against his body, kiss her, feel her, and pull the end of the ridiculously insubstantial bow tied behind her neck plus the one at her back. The bottoms look like they would rip off easily if he pulled with any amount of pressure.

_Stop thinking that_, he mentally chastises himself, fighting to maintain eye contact with her.

Joe desperately wants to look at her body, take in the small black triangles that barely cover her breasts, the slightly larger black triangles that sort of cover her bum and fanny.

He clears his throat, fighting to find his voice.

"Uhmmm, errrr, aaahh," he stutters, dragging his hand through his hair, trying to find something intelligible to say. He gestures toward her with his left arm but can't find the words.

"Joe?" she asks, reaching out her hand to touch his bare arm, an action that results in his undoing.

His left arm snakes out and cups Stirling behind the neck, pulling her toward him. His lips are on her in seconds, his mouth open, pushing against hers, devouring her. His right arm goes around her, caressing her back, pulling her closer to him. God, he really wants to undo those silly bows. His arm trails down her back, lower and lower, until he is cupping her barely covered bum, pushing her against his groin.

Stirling is taken by surprise, something that rarely happens to her. Joe looks so queer when she approaches, almost wild. And then he becomes incoherent, unable to put a sentence together. She thought it was some kind of fit, a seizure, reaching out to touch him. And then he grabs her, pulls her body to him, kissing her in such an assertive and demanding way, like he wants to eat her alive. She doesn't know what to do at first, feeling a wave of longing and desire wash over her. She puts her arms around his body, her right hand at the nape of his neck, her left on his bare back, caressing and pulling. She feels his hand move down her back and cradle her bum, pulling her tighter against his body. She can feel how much he wants her and she gasps against his mouth.

"Oh my god!" she moans between kisses.

She hears him groan and his left hand scrambles at the bow tying her bikini behind her neck. And she stiffens.

_Is this what you want?_ she asks herself as he tries to undo her swim top, caress her body and kiss her, all at the same time.

He had told her she would know when it was time, when it was right, and, while this feels bloody fantastic, it doesn't feel appropriate, proper.

She pulls back from his lips, away from his body. He pulls her back, demanding more.

"Joe, no," she says, turning her head from his lips, trying to twist from his grasp. He holds on tighter.

She's never experienced Joe this excited, this uncontrolled. But she is not frightened. And she doesn't want to hurt him. Kneeing him in the groin would just be cruel and mean. So, she tries a different technique. She raises her right and left arms quickly above her head and drops, gravity and her weight dragging her down and out of Joe's arms. On her knees in front of him, she rolls quickly to the side before he can react, and jumps to her feet.

He turns toward her, his eyes glazed with wanting, and she shoves him hard in the chest.

"I said no!" she yells forcefully.

He stops, confused.

"What the hell?" he asks. "You walk up to me wearing that skimpy outfit, ask me what I think, drive me completely to distraction. I kiss you, you kiss me back; I hold you, you hold me; I caress you, you do the same; and suddenly, you pull away and shut me down."

He's upset and perturbed.

"Are you just messing with me, with my head?" he asks her. "I love you. I want to be with you. I mean physically be with you - have sex with you, shag with you, boff with you, sleep with you, whatever you want to call it. Don't you want the same?"

And there it is, all laid out in the open. No more wondering, no more hinting, no more guessing, no more skirting around the subject. He's asked the question. And Stirling doesn't know how to answer.

She bends over and pulls her T-shirt out of her rucksack, pulling it over her head and covering the skimpy bikini top. She's stalling for time. She needs to think.

"I remember this beautiful, sexy woman asking me to sleep with her, hold her through the night," says Joe, sadly. "I remember her confidence as she tried to have her way with me in a Land Rover on the side of a roadway in broad daylight; falling off the bonnet and trying to undo my trousers in a field in the middle of the night; pulling me into her home so she can take me upstairs to bed."

Stirling looks up at Joe.

"That was before," she whispers.

"Before what?" he asks, already knowing the answer.

"Before Spencer!" she yells.

"And this!" she adds, showing him her inner arms.

"And this!" she says forcefully, pulling up her T-shirt to show both of her sides.

"And this!" she says, pulling down the front of her bikini bottoms to show her stomach scar.

"And I've told you a hundred times I don't see them," he yells back. "They don't matter to me. They only make you more beautiful and desirable in my eyes."

He's silent for a moment.

"Or maybe it's my scars that you don't want to see or touch," he says quietly.

"No!" Stirling gasps, hurt clearly visible in her eyes and the tone of her voice. "That's not true. Never!"

Joe feels ashamed.

"Then why?" he asks desperately. "I love you. I want you. I've wanted you since the first day we met and I honestly thought you felt the same way. Sometimes, you act like you want to go further, you give all the signs and the hints, but then you go only so far and pull away. Why don't you want me anymore?"

Stirling struggles, unable to explain something so complicated and confusing that even she doesn't understand. She does want him, she does. There are so many times she wants to tell him, hint at it. But something is there, holding her back, some invisible barrier, some invisible fear.

"You told me once we would know when the time was right," she says. "When we would be ready. I haven't felt that yet."

Joe visibly flinches and Stirling's heart aches with the pain she's caused him.

"It would appear the great Michael Aubrey, Esquire, was wrong," he says bitterly.

"What do you mean?"

"He swore up and down you were in love with me, that I made you happy!"

Joe gives a sour-sounding laugh.

"He gave me grief for not sleeping with you; doing the deed, sealing the deal, he called it. 'It's amazing what a few long nights of shagging will help you forget,' he told me. That spending your nights in the arms of someone you love, someone who loves you back, will help the nightmares go away. Guess we'll never know."

Stirling lets out a sob as Joe pulls his T-shirt from his rucksack and puts it on. He grabs the straps and puts the bag over his shoulders.

"I'm heading home," he says, turning from her, unable to meet her tear-filled eyes. "I have lots to do before I start back to work tomorrow."

He musters some courage and looks back at her.

"I'll probably be really busy for the first few weeks so I don't know when I'll see you again," he says. "You can always stop by the station and say hello if you want to."

He starts walking toward the path, leaving an emotionally distraught Stirling behind.

He stops just before he leaves the beach.

"I'll wait for you, Stirling," he calls back to her. "But not forever. You need to decide what you want; what you really, really want. It can't continue this way."

He disappears between the rocks.

Stirling falls to the sand, curling into a fetal position on the beach blanket, hugging her knees to her chest, crying as her heart breaks.

* * *

She must fall asleep because when Stirling next opens her eyes, the sun is low on the horizon. The tide has come in and is on its way back out.

She sits up and stretches her sore muscles before leaning back against the boulder behind her. She hugs her knees to her chest and watches the waves as the seabirds swoop down toward the water, catching fish in their beaks or their claws.

She's emotionally lost, uncertain what to do.

_It's all so bloody confusing_, she thinks, cursing the corpse of Spencer Graham. _I wish I never met that asshole all those years ago._

Of course, if she follows that wish to its conclusion, she never would have met Sam and, ultimately, Joe; never heard of Portwenn or met the Chief. And what a loss that would have been, especially for her. Because even though her emotions are confused when it comes to Joe, she knows she really does love him and this beautiful place and the Chief and Louisa and Morwenna and all of the other people who are part of her life here. And, because of Spencer, she is no longer that woman who originally met the young, gifted medical student; she's a better person, a stronger person, a kinder person.

Perhaps meeting Spencer Graham and experiencing his twisted, insane wrath was actually a blessing, she considers. It was painful, as all instances of personal growth usually are, but it helped forge her into a person capable of loving and caring and feeling, qualities missing in the cold heart of the career driven genius she once was.

_Would the old Stirling Mason Aylesworth the Third consider spending even one minute of her life crying over the possibility of losing the love of a village police constable from Cornwall?_ she wonders. _Never!_

And, because of that, Stirling is secretly glad that shallow, wounded version of herself died in that isolation room at St. Thomas' those many months ago. If only it hadn't taken such a catastrophe for it to happen.

If only she could figure out what to do now.

She is staring out into the fading sun sinking slowly into the Celtic Sea when she thinks she hears her name. She looks around but sees nothing. Then she hears it again. She stands up and looks up the gully, unable to spot anything through the foliage.

"Hello," she shouts, cupping her hands to direct her voice up the hill.

She hears her name again.

"Hello!"

A few minutes later, she hears her name much clearer.

"Hello!" she repeats.

A few minutes more and Michael stumbles onto the beach, looking as out of place as a clown at a funeral. As usual, he wears a three-piece black suit, crisp white dress shirt, Old Etonian tie, and highly buffed dress shoes with black socks - not your typical beach wear.

"There you are!" he shouts jovially, staggering toward her as the sand fills his shoes. "Joe suggested I might find you here."

He waddles up and squats down, dropping with a sigh of relief onto his bum beside her on the beach blanket. He immediately removes his shoes, pouring out small mountains of sand.

"Nice spot you have here. I should have brought my swimming trunks."

Stirling says nothing, deciding instead to look out at the darkening sky over the sea.

They sit in silence for several minutes.

"Why are you here, Michael?" she finally asks.

"Well, firstly, I wanted to say goodbye."

"Goodbye?" asks Stirling, puzzled.

"Yes, we're pushing off tonight. We've stayed away from London long enough. And Joe is no longer in need of my professional assistance."

"You're not going to stay for the ceremony?"

"No, I've seen enough pomp and circumstance to last me a lifetime. And if anything else comes up, you both know where to reach me."

Stirling feels tears begin to well up. Not only has Joe walked away from her, now Michael, Christopher and Leyland are leaving too.

"What's with the tears, Ling-Ling?" he asks, hugging her to him.

"Everyone is leaving me," she sobs into his beautiful suit.

"Not everyone," Michael says quietly, rubbing her back. "Your Chief is still here, holding down the fort at the surgery. And your Sergeant Penhale is at the Portwenn police station, waiting for you."

"He's not my Sergeant Penhale," she hiccups. "He walked away from me today, left me here, told me he didn't know when he could see me again, that things couldn't continue the way they are."

She sobs harder.

"Bollocks and poppycock!" says Michael. "He will always be your Sergeant Penhale, no matter what cobblers he tells you. He's hurting. You rejected him today and you wounded his heart and his pride. Did you expect him to be happy about it? Don't be daft!"

Stirling looks up from his soaked suit lapel, sniffling.

"He told you what happened?"

"It took me a while to weasel it out of him. I knew something was up when he came into the station before lunch looking po-faced and gloomy. He normally doesn't come whistling through the door until well after dinner. And usually in a much better frame of mind than today. I think he made poor PC Garrett cry."

Michael puts his arm around Stirling's shoulder and hugs her close to him.

"My darling Ling-Ling, you need to figure out what you want and what you plan to do with your life and soon. You used to have such direction, such drive, but Spencer knocked you right off track. I'm not saying that's a bad thing but you can wander aimlessly for only so long. I was so proud of you when you found this position in Portwenn. Sure, Spencer has knocked you off course again but you can get back on it. Only, you have to be sure, really sure this is what you want. Other people are involved here – your Chief, Joe. Very soon you will be 34 – a grown-up age with grown-up responsibilities and, ultimately, grown-up decisions. You have to decide whether you're ready to be that grown-up."

"Myself, I never grew up and look at me," says Michael, leaning back against the boulder. "I need my old valet to look after me. And Christopher to help him. And sometimes even you to lend a helping hand. It may look like fun but having to rely on all these people just so I can make it through a day is humiliating. Being a grown-up has its advantages."

"And this particular situation is a prime example," he adds, standing up. "It's now pitch dark out and I have no clue how the hell to get off this bloody beach."

Stirling can't help but laugh.

"Watch and learn, young grasshopper," she teases, pulling her khaki shorts out of the rucksack before stuffing the beach blanket in it. She pulls on her walking shorts, her socks and her boots before shrugging into the rucksack straps.

"Follow me," she says, walking toward the path leading off the beach and up the gully.

It takes a bit longer in the dark but Stirling and Michael finally climb to the top and the familiar cliff path. But rather than head toward Portwenn, Michael leads her in the opposite direction and then down a short path to a small car park off the main road to Polzeath, where the Bentley sits waiting.

"We were beginning to worry, Mr. Michael," says Leyland, climbing out of the drivers' side to open the back door. "Good to see you again, Miss Stirling."

She climbs in the back with Michael. Christopher is already there, waiting.

On the trip back to Portwenn, she hugs and kisses her friends and thanks them for all the help they provided both Joe and herself.

"And you're always welcome back, anytime," she says. "My door is always open for you."

"We love you, Stirling," Christopher says. "And you are always welcome to visit us in London as well."

"That sounds like a good idea," she says wistfully.

"Figure out what you want first," Michael growls.

She smiles and kisses his cheek.

"I know, I know; be a grown-up."

Leyland stops the Bentley in front of the surgery and helps Stirling out. She gives him a hug and a kiss goodbye.

"Take good care of them," she says.

"Always, Miss," the old man says with a smile, shutting the passenger door. He is about to climb back into the car when he pauses and turns to her.

"And if you meet someone who is able to turn pain into poetry, don't let them go," he says softly.

Stirling is still crying quietly as the Bentley disappears up the high street heading out of the village.

* * *

The next morning, Stirling awakens early, intent on seeing the Chief for a quick check-up of her hands. She easily beats the first patient of the day and he makes time for her, spreading her fingers and hands on his desk top. He carefully examines each digit, studying its range of motion and dexterity. He has her make a fist and lift each finger from the fist one at a time, repeating with the other hand.

"Come with me," he says, getting up from his desk and leaving the consulting room. He notices his first patient has arrived.

"I'll just be a few more minutes, Miss Alton," he tells the young lady chatting with Morwenna.

Stirling follows the Chief through the low hallway into the kitchen and ultimately to the piano room. He lifts the key cover and has her sit down.

"I want you to play some scales and then a few simple songs. Nothing too complicated or taxing on your fingers. Let's see how much they remember."

Stirling sets her fingers lightly on the keys and moves through several scales. At first she's a bit rusty - she hasn't been practicing daily like she should be - and strikes a few wrong notes. But she soon is flying through the scales flawlessly. She switches to a simple tune, Sonata Pathetique by Beethoven.

"I was thinking of something simpler, like Twinkle, Twinkle, or Mary had a Little Lamb," the Chief says.

"This is simple," Stirling says, playing through the song flawlessly.

He pauses for a moment.

"Try something a bit harder."

Stirling has just the song - Piano Sonata No. 11 in A Major by Mozart.

Her digits fly over the keys and the Doc watches her fingers as closely as he can at that speed. He's surprised when he looks up to find Morwenna and Miss Alton watching from the piano room doorway, mesmerized by the song. Stirling's eyes are closed; as usual she travels somewhere else mentally as she plays.

As the final note dies away, she is surprised by the applause from the Chief plus Morwenna and Miss Alton.

"Beautiful," says the Doc, looking at her and nodding his head. "Your fingers have healed better than I ever expected. I think it's time you returned to work."

Stirling gasps and smiles with excitement.

"When?"

"Well, today is Thursday," he says. "I'll finish out the week and you can start with house calls on Monday and Tuesday. I know that's opposite of the usual pattern but we'll try that for the first week and go from there."

Stirling jumps up from the piano bench and hugs the Chief, kissing him softly on the cheek.

"Thank you!" she says.

He looks embarrassed and clears his throat.

"No, thank you. The Truro hospital has been pressuring me to return to surgeries for the past few weeks. This will help free up some time and begin the process of establishing a regular schedule again."

He moves to return to the consulting room but stops, turning around.

"I'm looking forward to having you back, Dr. Aylesworth," he says. "Everyone in the village is."

Stirling is ecstatic with the news and instantly thinks about walking down to the police station to tell Joe. But she stops, remembering how it all ended yesterday. She's not certain where she stands with him. And he had mentioned how busy he is likely to be for the next few weeks.

Stirling instead decides to do something she's been meaning to do for a few weeks - some retail therapy. First thing on the list - a new swimsuit.

The Triumph has been sitting for the past week gathering road dust in the side parking lot. In honour of Joe's motorcycle lessons, the side car was removed and Stirling decides to keep it off for now. With Bucephalus gone, there really is no need for the bulky item and the Triumph actually performs better without the added weight on the side. The sidecar has been placed up on boards to protect it from the damp and covered with a tarp, tied and weighted down.

She slips on her light weight leather jacket, helmet and goggles, excited to finally be riding the bike again. It easily roars to life on the first kick and she backs it slowly off the stand. With her boots up and her gloves gripping the handles, she roars out of the village, looking forward to the open roads of the moor and the wind in her face.

Stirling's about 10 minutes out of Portwenn when she first catches a glimpse of something in her side mirror. It looks like a flashing light but she can't be sure as she winds through several turns and up and down a few hills, hiding whatever is behind her from sight. She decides to click the cycle into a higher gear and give it a bit more gas. She easily surges ahead and she feels the giddy emotion resulting from increased speed. She laughs with joy.

She's a further five minutes ahead when she hears the siren. She glances in her side mirror and there's no mistaking the flashing lights coming up quickly behind her. It's a police vehicle. She gears down the bike and pulls over to the left, shutting down the machine. She pulls up her goggles and unbuckles her helmet, pulling it off and setting it in front of her. She hears the police vehicle stop behind her and shut off, followed by the drivers' side door opening and closing. The gravel along the roadside crunches as the footsteps approach her.

"Do you have any idea how fast you were going?" a familiar voice asks her.

Stirling turns to find Joe standing beside her, dressed in his typical warm weather uniform - a brilliant white short-sleeved collared shirt with black tie and black epaulettes, black razor edge creased wool uniform pants, and incredibly shiny black dress shoes. Around his waist is clipped his ever present duty belt, fully stocked with notebooks, mobile phone, police radio, pepper spray, telescoping baton and speedcuffs. He's gripping a notebook and pencil in his hands, his eyes serious.

"I have no idea, Constable," she says.

"Actually, it's Sergeant," he says.

"My apologies," she says. "I have no idea, Sergeant."

"I measured you travelling 80 miles per hour in a 60 mile per hour zone," he says.

Stirling looks at him sharply, outraged.

"Bollocks!" she says angrily. "I want to see the reading."

"Are you suggesting I'm lying?" he asks calmly.

"No, I'm suggesting your laser speed gun has been calibrated incorrectly," she says. "I was not going 80 in a 60 zone. If you told me I was going 70 in a 60, I'd be more inclined to believe you. But no way was I going 80 in a 60."

"I need to see your licence and motorcycle registration," Joe says calmly.

Stirling is seething inside as she digs out her wallet and removes the necessary documentation from their sleeves. She hands them to Joe, who touches her fingertips briefly with his own when he takes the paper slips from her. She feels a tingle of excitement from the unexpected touch. Joe remains expressionless as he reads the documents.

"Stir-ling," he says. "That's a very interesting name."

She looks at him with a frown.

_What the hell is he playing at?_ she wonders.

"I'm named after my dad," she answers, following his lead. "I was supposed to be a boy."

Joe looks up at her, his expression unreadable.

"Well, you certainly don't look like a boy."

He bends his head back down to the documents.

"It says here you live in Portwenn. Where exactly?"

"The doctor's surgery on Roscarrock Hill," she answers.

"Are you a doctor?" he asks, glancing up.

"Yes."

"Interesting. Are you married?"

"No."

"Have children?"

"No."

"Are you currently seeing anyone?"

"Well, I was seeing this guy from Portwenn, a real cutie. But he left me high and dry yesterday. I was being a bit of a prat and hurt his pride and his feelings so he told me adios. He's going to be too busy with his job the next few weeks to spend much time with me anyway, so I guess it's for the best. It is too bad, though. I wanted to tell him I was sorry and that I was giving what he said a lot of thought."

Joe is quiet for a few moments, looking down at her documents.

"If you don't mind me saying, he sounds like a bit of a wanker," he says. "He should probably be apologizing to you for being so selfish and demanding. From my limited experience, ultimatums and pressure don't really work well in these kinds of situations. He should of tried a little patience and tenderness."

"You know, he really is a patient and tender guy," Stirling answers. "I think he finally grew tired of waiting for me to make up my mind. I can't really fault him for that. I'm having some trouble deciding what I really want in life. A good friend of mine told me it's time I gave some serious thought to my future and did some growing up. So, that's what I'm doing."

"Do you have any answers yet?" Joe asks, looking up at her hopefully.

Stirling feels such deep shock of emotion for him at that moment, she wants to reach out and kiss him. But she holds back.

"Not yet. I'm working on it. I'm sure he'll be the first to know what I decide."

"Sounds fair," he says.

He hands her back her documents.

"I was wondering if you might be interested in going out to dinner with me," he says. "I know this place in Bodmin that serves great Mediterranean food and has dancing later in the evening."

"When were you thinking?"

"Friday night. I could pick you up around 6:30."

"Sounds like a plan," Stirling says. "You know where I live, right?"

"I'll never forget," Joe says softly.

"See you tomorrow night," she says, smiling.

"Tomorrow," he says, turning and walking back to the Land Rover.

Stirling watches as he starts the vehicle and pulls it around in a large U-turn, heading back to Portwenn.

_Well, that was weird_, she thinks, kicking the Triumph to life. _And I love it!_


	37. Chapter 36

Stirling spends a wonderful day in Bodmin, actually managing to enjoy one of the most stressful and angst ridden of retail exercises for women - the purchase of a new swimsuit. She finds the perfect replacement for her destroyed Speedo - an almost identical racing-back Speedo. Not very original but definitely within her comfort zone.

She also considers the latest developments with Joe. What does one wear to a dinner and dancing date at a Mediterranean restaurant? For truly proper dancing, a woman should wear a dress or skirt, she decides, and hits the dress shoppes. Three stops later, she still hasn't found something appropriate that she would actually feel comfortable wearing, let alone dancing in. She's about to give up when she spots a second-hand clothing store on a side street and wanders in.

The place is a treasure trove of nostalgia, and browsing through the racks and shelves reminds Stirling of childhood rainy days spent exploring the huge attic of her Gran and Gramps' house in York. Many of the dresses are hilarious, harkening back to the 60s, 70s and 80s, but she manages to find a few that appeal to her.

The first is a halter dress from the 1950s, red with black polka dots and an amazing full skirt, complete with a sewn-in black crinoline. The second is a two-piece outfit with a full black skirt, also with a crinoline, this time white. The top is a moss green with short-sleeves and a low neckline but very loose collar with lots of material. The shirt cinches in tight at the waist, closing with four closely spaced buttons, and comes complete with a thin black belt and matching pillbox hat. The third is another halter dress, this time solid black with a full skirt and sewn-in red crinoline.

She's unsure which one to purchase since she loves them all. Some shrewd negotiation with the shoppe owner results in the three going home with her plus a pair of shoes that match all of the outfits.

As usual, packing her purchases on the Triumph prove to be the most challenging task of the day but she manages to accomplish what at first feels like the impossible. And for about the 100th time in her life, Stirling contemplates just how tacky and silly a small tag-a-long would look attached to the back of the Triumph as she roars home through the Cornwall countryside.

* * *

Old habits die hard and the next morning, she walks the cliff top trail alone, picking a small posy of wild flowers to place on Bucephalus' rock. That's how she thinks of it now - as his rock, his place.

Stirling ranges far in her travels, walking further than the small trail down to the isolated beach. The weather is beautiful, the sun warm, the breeze rather calm for the north coast of Cornwall.

_A perfect day_, she thinks, passing dozens of hikers going in the opposite direction.

She makes it almost as far as Polzeath before her grumbling stomach informs her it might be a good idea to turn around and start walking back. The trail is thick with fellow hikers as she travels toward Portwenn. The ones picnicking along the side of the trail drive her wild with hunger.

It's about 1 o'clock when she finally arrives back at the surgery, ravenous and dusty. She fixes herself some sandwiches and a bowl of soup, settling at the kitchen table to flip through the local newspaper as she eats.

She smiles at the photo and small article announcing Joe's return to duty in the village and his new title of sergeant. The write-up also advertises his upcoming award ceremony, scheduled for next Wednesday evening in Exeter. Stirling plans to attend along with the Chief, Louisa, Morwenna and Al. Several other people from the village are also planning on making the trip.

After lunch, she sits down at the piano to practice, entertaining people sitting in the waiting room for more than an hour. She begins with Beethoven's Fur Elise, moves on to Debussy's Claire de Lune, dabbles with some Schubert and Chopin before returning to Beethoven, one of her favourites, Piano Sonata No. 14 in C Sharp Minor. Her fingers fly over the keys, her eyes shut tight, blocking out all external stimuli, hearing and feeling only the music. When she finishes, she can hear applause from the waiting room, which makes her laugh. She stops laughing when she hears the unmistakable sound of the Chief clearing his throat in the kitchen. She looks over as he stirs his espresso, watching her.

"That was very good," he says, after a moment of silence.

"Thank you," she says, slightly embarrassed. "I'm sorry if it's been loud."

"It's actually very relaxing," he says. "But I was wondering ... if you would play something for me."

Stirling stares at him in disbelief.

"A request?"

He's never asked her to play a particular song - ever.

"I guess you could call it that," he says with a slight frown. "I've always had a fondness for Beethoven, specifically Piano Sonata #8."

"Sonata Pathetique," says Stirling, with a slight smile. "I like that one, too."

She bends over the keys and begins the familiar song, once hijacked by a mezzo-soprano opera singer back in the early 1980s and used as the base melody for her chart-topping pop song. But Stirling doubts that's why the Chief enjoys hearing it.

_He probably never listened to rock or pop music in his youth_, she thinks as she plays, eventually putting everything but the music out of her mind.

When she finishes, she looks over to the kitchen where the Chief had been standing. He is gone.

* * *

Stirling is still thinking about Beethoven hours later as she soaks in the tub in preparation for her date with Joe. Ludwig has always been one of her favourite composers and Sonata Pathetique one of his pieces she most enjoys playing. She finds it interesting that the Chief enjoys him as well.

At 6 o'clock, she starts dressing for her night out - stockings, garters, matching panties and bra, and the two-piece outfit. She does her own hair, sweeping it up in a bun before pinning the pillbox hat on her head at a jaunty angle.

_Louisa would be proud_, she thinks, examining the effect in the mirror.

She looks at her arms and wonders: _Should I wear the long gloves?_

After digging them out of her top dresser drawer, she pulls the black pair up to her elbows and examines herself in the mirror. While they disguise her scars, the gloves feel restrictive, smothering. She pulls them off, looks at her arms again and sighs.

_It's time to let go_, she thinks as she stands in the loo, putting on her makeup. _Forget about them, they're just marks on your skin._

What had Joe called them? Battle marks; signs of courage and survival.

Stirling hears a knock on the door downstairs. She looks herself over once more and rushes downstairs, unlocking the front door and opening it wide.

"I just have a few things ..." she manages to say before she goes silent, speechless.

Joe stands before her in a green dress shirt with black tie - a proper black tie, she notes - and a dark green suit jacket. He's also wearing a stunning pair of dark blue jean trousers and shiny dress shoes. He looks incredibly handsome.

In his hands he holds a bouquet of roses - pinks, whites and reds - well more than a dozen. They are stunning and smell wonderful.

"Wow," she finally manages to say. "Come in."

Joe enters the front hall and Stirling closes the door behind her.

"These are for you," he says almost formally, handing her the bouquet.

She smiles, admiring the beautiful blooms.

"Thank you," she says, blushing. She leans forward and kisses him on the cheek before turning and walking toward the kitchen. "I'll just put them in some water."

He follows her through the piano room and stops at the kitchen table, watching her take a vase from the top shelf of a cupboard and fill it with water and a teaspoon of sugar. She unwraps the flowers and arranges them in the vase, fluffing and fussing with the buds until they look perfect. She sets the filled vase in the centre of the kitchen table and looks up at Joe.

"They're beautiful," she says shyly.

She turns and locks the back door before grabbing her clutch purse.

"All set?" he asks, reaching for her hand.

He escorts Stirling out of the house and waits while she locks the surgery door behind her. Taking her arm again, he leads her to the Land Rover, opening the passenger door and helping her in. He closes the door behind her and walks around to the driver's side. He starts the engine and looks over at her, smiling.

"Are you going to sit way over there?" he asks. "I promise I don't bite; well, not too hard.

She laughs, slowly inching herself over on the seat until she is beside him. He reaches across her and clips the lap belt on the other side.

"You look beautiful," he says, kissing her right hand.

"So do you," she says. "You look very handsome, I mean."

He blushes.

"Thank you."

He puts the Land Rover in gear and backs it into a parking spot beside the surgery, quickly turning around and heading down the hill, through the village and out into the countryside, heading toward Bodmin.

"How have your first few days back to work been?" Stirling asks.

"Busy," he says, reaching for her right hand and holding on his left knee. "I've been correcting all the paperwork and filing mistakes PC Garrett managed to do during his six weeks in Portwenn. I've also been familiarizing myself with some of the changes around the village and the area."

Stirling smiles at the thought of PC Garrett, who is probably having a joyful reunion with his bird.

"There's a new family living at the Buchwald farm," Joe tells her, wondering how she'll react.

She looks at him, shocked at first, but calming as she thinks about the idea.

"That's good," she says. "The farm should be occupied. I hate to think of that beautiful view of the moor not being enjoyed."

Joe smiles.

"They have two little children, a boy and a girl, who will be starting at the primary school next term. She's a nurse at the hospital in Bodmin and he's a sheep farmer."

"The echo of children in the halls," Stirling says, smiling. "That's nice."

"I knew you would approve," Joe says with a laugh. "How have things been with you?"

She turns to him, her eyes dancing with excitement.

"I start back to work on Monday," she says.

He looks back at her, surprised.

"Already?"

"What do you mean already? I've been off almost two months. That's long enough. It's time to go back. I'm going to start with house calls for the first two days and then surgery visits for the rest of the week. It's opposite to the usual routine but we'll see how it works out."

Joe is quiet for a few moments.

"So it's your last weekend of freedom," he says. "We should celebrate."

"Isn't that what we're doing tonight?" she asks mischievously.

"No, tonight is an apology of sorts, an opportunity for me to reintroduce myself to the stunning young woman I love but hurt so callously."

Stirling blushes again, looking down at their interlocked hands.

They are silent for a few more minutes, each lost in their own thoughts.

"I have to work on Saturday," Joe finally says, breaking the silence. "But I'd like to spend the day with you on Sunday, explore the countryside with you, enjoy a beach or two, have some ice cream and pub grub."

Stirling laughs.

"It's a good thing I bought a new swimsuit."

Joe looks disappointed.

"You've replaced the bikini?"

"After the last reaction it received, I thought it would be best," she says, smiling at him. "Your day out sounds wonderful. Hopefully the weather will cooperate."

"It will," says Joe.

They are soon in Bodmin and Joe pulls up near a tapas restaurant not far from the downtown area.

He helps Stirling down from the Land Rover and escorts her inside.

They are quickly seated at an intimate corner booth where they can sit side-by-side. He pulls her to his side and kisses her gently.

"I've missed you," he says, looking into her eyes. "I'm sorry I left you the way I did on the beach. The way I acted, what I said, it was inexcusable."

She puts her finger to his lips gently.

"Shhh," she says quietly. "It's over, forgotten. I also behaved badly. I think we've both learned something about ourselves and how we feel for each other. No more apologies."

She kisses him but is interrupted by a quiet cough from beside their table. She looks up into the face of a smiling waitress.

"I'm sorry to intrude but I thought you might want to put in your drink order. The bar is very busy this evening."

Once their order of a pint of lager and a pitcher of ice water is taken, they turn to look at one another.

"Now where were we?" Joe asks with a smile, leaning in to kiss her.

Stirling feels a shiver run down her spine.

"Are you cold?" he asks.

"No," she says with a smile. "Just excited."

"That hungry, eh?"

"Yes," she says, laughing.

"Well, we better order then."

Ten minutes later, they're enjoying their meal and chatting about life and their families.

"How's Sam doing?" Stirling asks, dipping a chunk of bread in a delicious eggplant dish.

"Fairly well," Joe answers, spearing a shrimp with his fork. "He's been very busy with his job. But he mentioned the new weekend band at the Bristol Bobby pub just doesn't have the same spark you did. The regular's still talk about you wistfully and ask when you're coming back. He says they haven't quite figured out that being a doctor pays better than singing in a pub."

"Maybe I should go back and give them a farewell performance," she says.

"They'll probably never let you leave."

She's silent, chewing her food thoughtfully.

"Why did he not come down to visit you when you were in the hospital?" she asks. "Your mum didn't visit either. Why not?"

Joe's silent for a long time, playing with the food on his plate.

Stirling feels a sinking sensation in her stomach.

"I'm sorry," she says, touching his arm. "It's none of my business, really. You don't have to answer."

He looks up at her and smiles sadly.

"Yes, I do," he says softly. "This is part of being a couple, being honest about the parts of our lives we've both been keeping from one another. As I recall, your sister and family didn't come to visit you either."

She looks him in the eye as she nods her head.

"You're right. Do you want me to go first?"

"No, I will," he says, clearing his throat. "Sam wanted to visit and tried to get Mum to pick him up from the train station or drive to Bristol and get him. She wasn't interested. Sam's always been her favourite. When I became a police constable, it only made her more disappointed in me. She's never been enthusiastic about any of the choices I've made in my life: my career, where I live, my first wife, even my divorce."

He laughs.

"She hated Maggie when she met her and hated her even more when she left me. She's impossible to please."

"So, when Sam contacted her, she told him she wasn't interested in visiting me in the hospital. She told him the day I became a police constable was the day I signed my death certificate; she wasn't interested in seeing the end results. She sent me a card a few weeks later suggesting when I felt better, I could travel to Truro and visit with her."

"She lives in Truro?" Stirling says incredulously. "But that's where the hospital is. She could have easily visited. And Portwenn's only an hour away. Has she ever been to see you here?"

Joe shakes his head.

"Never. Sometimes she calls at Christmas or sends a card around my birthday. That's all."

"Anyway, Sam wasn't able to make it down but he's called me faithfully every week to find out how I was doing and how you were. He wants to come down for a visit soon but he's a bit embarrassed given his past activities in Portwenn. I'm hoping he'll come for a visit at Christmas."

Stirling is silent, processing the information Joe has shared with her.

"Did your mum at least attend your wedding?"

Joe laughs.

"Yes, she couldn't miss that opportunity to complain bitterly about everything from the ceremony to the catering to the venue. She was in her element."

He watches her for a moment as she taps her fork on the table, thinking.

"Your turn," he says softly.

She looks up and smiles sadly.

"I think I've mentioned to you before that my sister and I have very different personalities. She has always treated me like a baby, even when I grew up and no longer was one. And then she became my surrogate parent when I was 10. It was like my worst nightmare coming true. Not only were my parents gone forever, but they left my big sister in charge. And she ruled me with an iron fist. Naturally, I rebelled."

"It was Robert who saved me, who convinced Emily to let him handle me. And I blossomed under his freedom. She resented that. The closeness we shared, it wasn't the same between Robert and his own children, or even between the two of them. And it made her miserable."

"As I know you are very aware, I wasn't a stupid child. I could see what was happening, how my very presence was driving a wedge between my sister and Robert. So, I looked for a way out and found it in a national science competition. The day I won was the day my sister's marriage was saved."

Joe listens to her sadly, remembering the police report outlining Stirling's life growing up.

"It wasn't even close to showing the whole picture," he thought.

"With me out of the house, my sister's marriage flourished. But she still tried to keep me under her control. I loathed family visits. She was always at me, questioning me. She hated Michael and forbade me to see him. Her biggest fear was that I would grow up to be like her - pregnant at 19, married at 20, a mother of two by 22. The lectures were long and boring."

"Of course, I didn't grow up to be like Emily. But that didn't stop her from criticizing every choice I made - which medical school I attended, what speciality I pursued, my relationship with Spencer, the fact we lived together without being married. Of course, Spencer proved to be the one thing she was right about and while I was recovering from MERS, she never let me forget how she had seen through his charms. Visits from her were torturous."

"Flash forward to May. When I woke up in the hospital, it was already too late; the Chief and Louisa had already contacted Emily and Robert. I would have preferred they just didn't know, similar to Michael and Christopher. I know it wasn't the right thing to do or very nice of me to want keep them in the dark about what happened, but sometimes it's the best thing to do for all involved. But I didn't need to worry. Emily phoned me not long after I regained consciousness and told me they were too busy to make the trip down to Cornwall. I admit I was upset at first but it really did turn out for the best. And she did call me every week to see how I was doing. She still does."

Stirling looks at Joe and he looks at her.

"Well, it would appear we have something in common," he says quietly. "We're related to wankers."

She stares at him for a moment and laughs. She leans against him as she laughs harder, wrapping her arms around his neck and leaning her head on his shoulder.

"Thank you," she whispers in his ear.

"For what?"

"I think we both needed to talk about that. I feel much better for sharing it with you."

"So do I," he says, kissing her cheek gently.

Later, as they're leaving the restaurant, Stirling turns to Joe.

"I thought there was going to be dancing?"

"There is," he says, leading her down the sidewalk to a club next door. Inside, the music is thumping and couples are spinning across the crowded dance floor.

"Oh my!" she says.

Joe leans in to her left ear.

"Ready to show them how it's done?"

She laughs and nods her head.

And together, they dance the night away.


	38. Chapter 37

Sunday morning dawns bright, warm and sunny, exactly as Joe predicted.

Stirling is slow to get moving, still exhausted from her Friday to early morning Saturday activities. She eventually tucked her sore dancing feet into bed around 4 a.m. Saturday morning just as the horizon was beginning to lighten in the east. The half-day surgery traffic that started a few hours later soon had her wide-awake. She eventually crawled out of bed just four hours after entering it, deciding to do some laundry and cleaning before collapsing back to sleep early Saturday night.

Now, more than 24 hours after her date night, she's still dragging.

_I must be getting old,_ she thinks as she stumbles downstairs to make some toast and a boiled egg for breakfast.

She can remember nights spent singing in smoky clubs followed by full days working at St. Thomas' with very little sleep in between. But she had still somehow managed to function. Now she can't even handle one late night of dancing.

_Pitiful!_ she thinks.

She glances at the clock and curses. Joe will be at the surgery in about an hour to pick her up. And she still has lots to do.

She manages to choke down her toast and egg fairly quickly and runs upstairs for a speedy shower. She puts on her new bathing costume, covering it with a comfy black pair of soft cotton walking shorts and a red novelty T-shirt that claims: When I play Doctor, I play to win.

In her rucksack, she shoves a change of clothes, a sweater in case it gets chilly, a few medical magazines and sun cream. Downstairs, she adds a few bottles of water and two apples. She quickly pulls her hair back in a ponytail, checking it in the mirror of the waiting room loo, before slipping on a pair of low-heeled sandals.

Stirling checks her watch. Perfect timing.

She rinses her dirty breakfast dishes as she waits and adds them to the half-filled dishwasher. She's contemplating folding laundry when there's a knock on the back door.

Joe stands on the back stoop, wearing a pair of navy, knee-length swimming trunks and a red Devon and Cornwall Police T-shirt. He's also wearing a black ball cap that has POLICE in white block letters on the front.

"Do they supply you with a full wardrobe when you sign on or have you just managed to accumulate this much work clothing swag over time?" Stirling asks, examining his shirt and cap.

"What do you mean?"

"Every time I turn around, you have a different coloured T-shirt or workout pants or jogging jacket with the Devon and Cornwall Police crest on it. It's fascinating. Do you have any informal clothing that doesn't announce to the world what you do for a living?"

He gives her a dirty look.

"This coming from a woman wearing a T-shirt that proudly claims she plays doctor to win," he says, pointing at her shirt.

"Ah, but that doesn't necessarily mean I'm a doctor," she says, smiling. "It just means I'm competitive when I play doctor. One look at your hat and shirt, there's no doubt in anyone's mind that you're a copper."

"Do you want me to go home and change?" he asks, frustrated.

Stirling laughs and hugs him.

"I'm just teasing," she says, giving him a quick kiss. "Although, I have been wondering if your boxer shorts are force issue."

Joe looks down at his swim trunks and shrugs.

"Can't show you; I don't have any on."

Stirling blushes and he pulls her in close to him, kissing the top of her head.

"Speaking of wardrobes, do you have a hat?" he asks, eyeing her bare head. "We're going to be in the sun a lot today and you might want one."

She thinks for a moment and walks into the back laundry room, lifting a cardboard box down from one of the storage shelves. She digs through the contents, eventually pulling out a dark grey Tilley-style hat. She plunks it on her head and flips up the front brim.

"Will this do?"

"Perfect," he says, grabbing her rucksack from the kitchen table and heading out the back door.

She locks the door behind her, pulling it shut firmly, before trotting after Joe. The Land Rover sits in the surgery parking lot and Joe is just shutting the back as Stirling arrives. He opens the passenger door and helps her in before getting in the driver's side.

"All set?" he asks, patting the seat next to him.

Stirling slides over and he helps her snap on the lap belt.

"Why do you do that?" she asks.

"What?"

"Do up my seat belt for me. You do know realize I can do it myself?"

"I just like reaching across your chest," Joe says seriously.

"I thought so," she says, laughing as she gives his left shoulder an affectionate shove.

"Where to?" he asks, starting the Land Rover. "It's your day. It's your choice of adventure."

Stirling thinks for a moment.

"I've never been west along the coast. I explored the northeast when I drove down from London but once I reached Portwenn, I stopped."

"Northwest coastline it is," he says, driving out of the surgery parking lot and down the hill. At the bottom, he turns right, climbing up Church Hill Road and out of the village. It's not the typical route Stirling takes out of Portwenn and she's curious about the scenery.

After a series of twist and turns, Joe turns the Land Rover right again onto B3314, heading toward St. Miniver and Wadebridge. The traffic is fairly light for a Sunday morning in the summer but they both know the roads will soon be choked with holidaymakers.

About 10 minutes later, just before Wadebridge, Joe turns the Land Rover west onto A39. A short while later, he turns right again, this time onto A389 on route to Padstow.

"You know, the National Lobster Hatchery is located in Padstow," says Joe as they drive along.

"The what?"

"The National Lobster Hatchery; it's a marine conservation charity that does research dedicated to conserving lobster populations and protecting habitats. They do education outreach as well. They have really cute baby lobsters."

"I'm in," says Stirling. "I want to see whether the word 'cute' and baby lobster really deserve to be in the same sentence."

"I bet you fall in love and want to adopt one," Joe says, smiling.

"I don't think so; I have enough crustiness in my life," she says. "I have the Chief."

About five minutes later, they pull into the hatchery, located along the shore of the River Camel. Joe parks the Land Rover near a pay and display kiosk, and purchases a few hours of time. As Stirling climbs out, she looks to the north where a long quay juts out into the river. Dozens of boats are moored along either side. On the far side of the river, another small village can be seen. The river itself is thick with dozens of boats motoring or sailing inland or toward the sea.

"Busy spot," she says as Joe takes her hand, leading her toward an interestingly shaped building with several signs proudly proclaiming it The National Lobster Hatchery.

"Look at that," Stirling says, pointing toward the signs. "'See baby lobsters.'"

"I told you."

They walk inside with several other people and pay admission before walking into the facility's Visitor Centre. They spend the next half hour touring through the various exhibits and examining the wide variety of live lobsters on display, visible in large aquariums or through special viewing windows. The facility is currently busy with the hatching season and Joe and Stirling watch as thousands of tiny baby lobsters are sorted into special cones.

"They don't even look like lobsters," she says, looking at the tiny creatures.

"They go through several moulting stages before they begin to look anything like a lobster," a guide explains. "We release them into the sea around Cornwall or the Islands of Sicily at about three weeks of age. Even then, they're really small but they do resemble what they'll look like fully grown."

Stirling finds the whole process fascinating and Joe watches with increasing amusement as she begins to inundate the guide with complicated questions.

"Exactly how many ecdysis cycles will the zoea larvae undergo before becoming benthic?" she asks, the guide giving her a puzzled look.

"My understanding is _Homarus gammarus_ is susceptible to gaffkaemia, particularly in captivity. How do you keep the disease from wiping out your population?"

The guide begins to look uncomfortable.

"I've also read all of the clawed lobster species - _H. gammarus, H. americanus_, and _Nephrops norvegicus_ - serve as a living host for animals of the Cycliophora phylum, which not much is known about. Have your facility's researchers been doing any study on this symbiotic relationship and conducting further examination of the taxon?"

By now, the hatchery guide has become extremely pale and is looking around wildly for someone to help her.

"It would be beneficial to have branches of the _Cycliophora_ phylum identified and described so they can cease being referred to as _nomen nudum_. It must be embarrassing for them," Stirling says with a laugh.

Her question is met with pin-dropping silence and several people standing nearby stare at her in disbelief.

"I guess you didn't get the joke," she says quietly. "_Nomen nudum_, having a bare or naked name, which can lead to embarrassment for the - never mind."

She turns to Joe.

"I guess we should go."

She practically drags him out of the visitor centre as he struggles to control his laughter.

"It isn't funny," she says as he leans against the Land Rover, wiping tears from his eyes.

"Oh, you have to admit it's a little bit funny," he says. "No one, including me, had a damn clue what you were rattling on about in there. I'm fairly certain that poor guide is crying in the loo now because you publicly humiliated her about her lack of knowledge regarding the common lobster. And Latin."

"It's not my fault she didn't understand basic taxonomy and Nomenclature Codes," she says stubbornly.

"No one understands basic taxonomy and Nomenclature Codes, except you and maybe about two dozen scientists who are only allowed out in public if they are accompanied by someone educated in normal social customs."

"Are you suggesting I'm abnormal?" Stirling says, folding her arms across her chest.

"No!" Joe says quickly. "I think anyone who understands what you're saying is abnormal."

If looks could kill, Joe would now be dead, and he knows it.

"That's not what I meant to say," he says, scrambling to think of a different way of expressing what he actually means. His mind is blank.

Stirling continues to stare at him with open hostility.

He takes a deep breath.

"You're different," he says. "You're special. That's one of the many things I love about you. Sometimes, you open your mouth and complete gibberish comes out. It makes perfect sense to you but the average bloke on the street has no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm not sure this is helping you, Joe," Stirling says tersely.

"Me, I sometimes have the same problem but for the opposite reason," he continues. "I open my mouth and something completely stupid will come out. It might make sense to me at that moment but everyone else thinks I'm slow or dumb."

Stirling's face begins to soften.

"Now that I think about it, it usually happens when I'm talking with the Doc. There's something about him that makes me say stupid things. I always thought it was because he was so much smarter than me, being a doctor and all. But when I talk with you or when I'm with you, you don't make me feel that way at all. No offence to the Doc but you're a hell of a lot smarter than he is. And I can't even begin to describe how much more intelligent you are compared to me. Even so, I don't feel dumb or stupid around you."

Stirling looks at Joe's earnest face and smiles.

"I'm not quite sure how you do it Sergeant Penhale but just when I feel like drop kicking you off the edge of a quay, very much like that one over there," she says, referring behind her, "you manage to say something that washes all the anger and annoyance away. What you said was very sweet. But just so you know, most of the time, I don't feel very smart or intelligent at all, especially when I make someone feel as uncomfortable as I obviously made that poor guide feel in there."

They hug each other tightly beside the Land Rover, prompting one driver to honk and shout out the window: "Rent a room."

They both laugh.

"Feeling hungry?" Joe asks, opening her door.

Stirling glances at her watch.

"It's getting to be about that time and I do feel a bit peckish. What do you have in mind?"

"You'll see," he says with a grin, starting up the Land Rover with a roar.

He drives out of Padstow west on the B3276, pointing out Prideaux Place, a stunning Edwardian residence overlooking the town's harbour area, to Stirling as they drive past the main entrance.

"In order to maintain the place, they rent it out for special occasions, wedding, anniversaries. They've staged the odd film or TV show there too."

They continue west, passing turnoffs to Trevone and Harlyn before driving through the tiny crossroads of St. Merryn, where they turn right. The Land Rover travels through another small town called Shop before Joe turns right again, this time onto a side road with a sign pointing to Constantine Bay.

"Constantine Bay," says Stirling. "I wonder if he was ever here."

"Who?"

"Constantine, the 57th emperor of the Roman Empire and the first to ever convert to Christianity," she says, leaning back against the Land Rover seat and stretching out her legs. "His father, Flavius Valerius Constantius, eventually became the emperor of Britannia and his son campaigned under him. When Flavius died, Constantine was made emperor of Rome's western territories in his father's place. He defeated Rome's eastern and central emperors in a civil war, eventually becoming ruler of all of Rome. It was under his orders that the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was constructed over Jesus' tomb in Jerusalem. He's considered a saint by the Church of England, you know."

She looks over at Joe, who is laughing.

"What?"

"You're doing it again," he says, smiling. "You're speaking gibberish and I don't have clue what you're talking about."

He turns the Land Rover into a large parking lot outside of a luxurious looking hotel.

"Well, maybe if you listened to what I was actually saying, you might understand what I'm talking about," Stirling says angrily, jumping down from the Land Rover and slamming the passenger door.

"You don't have to take it out on the Land Rover!"

"Where the hell are we?" she asks, standing with her arms crossed gazing at the front entrance of the hotel. "Treglos?"

Joe walks around the vehicle and untangles her arms, taking one of her hands in his.

"This hotel has one of the best restaurants in the area and the great part is, we don't have to dress up to have lunch."

With her hand firmly in his, he leads her through the front door and into the main reception area where they are greeted by a staff member, who leads them to the Quis Restaurant. Within minutes, they are seated in an elegant dining area full of other people enjoying a relaxing Sunday lunch.

Stirling looks around nervously at the other diners, who all look like they've come here straight from church.

"I think we're a tad under-dressed," she whispers.

Joe doesn't even look up from his menu.

"We're fine," he says. "They don't get strict about the dress code until after 7. Do you like scallops?"

"Maybe you should at least take off your hat."

"I'm telling you, it's fine."

A waitress in a starched black and white uniform comes over to the table and fills their water glasses.

"You can just leave that pitcher of water here," Joe says as she turns to walk away.

"Certainly, Constable."

"Is Edward on this afternoon?" Joe asks her.

"Yes, he is. Would you like speak with him?"

"Please."

"I'll let him know you're here," the young blond says and walks toward the kitchen.

Stirling looks at Joe over the top of her menu, arching her eyebrows in a curious look.

"Certainly, Constable?" she asks.

He takes no note of her, continuing to examine his menu.

"I'm told the sea bass here is very good," he says.

"Really?" she says, closing and setting down her menu. "I think I'll just have you order for me then."

Joe glances up quickly, looking slightly alarmed.

"You want me to order for you?"

"Sure," she says smiling. "I trust you."

Just then, an elderly gentleman, wearing an impeccable black suit and tie, walks up to their table, extending his hand out to Joe.

"Constable Joe, how good to see you again," he says, shaking Joe's hand emphatically. "How is that no-good brother of yours?"

"Sam's fine. He asks about you all the time. Edward, I'd like you to meet my friend, Dr. Stirling Aylesworth. Stirling, this sophisticated gentleman is Edward Barttle. He manages this restaurant."

Stirling extends her hand out for him to shake but he seizes it in both his and raises it to his lips.

"Enchante," he says, kissing it softly.

"Tout le plaisir est pour moi," she says in return.

Edward smiles widely at her.

"Wonderful!" he says. "You'll start with the scallops and sea bass for the entree. For afters, of course the creme brulee."

He turns to the blond waitress, who is standing right behind him, and soon has her scurrying off.

"So is this who has been keeping you from visiting all these weeks?" Edward says, smiling at Stirling. "I don't blame you. If I had such a beautiful and charming companion, I would not be leaving her side either."

Joe blushes slightly.

"I've been off-duty for a few weeks taking a break," he explains. "But I'm back on the job again and I wanted to bring Stirling out to enjoy the wonderful food here. And of course say hello to you."

"It has been too long, Joe," Edward says as their scallops arrive. "I will leave you two alone to enjoy your food. Bon appetit."

Stirling watches in amazement as Edward walks off, stopping to chat with diners at other tables on his way. She looks at Joe expectantly.

"He gave Sam and I our first jobs washing dishes at a restaurant in Truro," Joe explains. "He eventually worked his way up to managing this restaurant and I usually come by every two weeks or so to have lunch and chat with him. He is one of the few people who actually encouraged me when I said I wanted to become a police constable. He wrote me a very favourable reference."

Stirling smiles as she cuts into her scallops.

"He seems like a very charming man," she says.

"Oh yes, he's very popular with the older ladies who come here to enjoy the spa," Joe says, laughing. "He has a new girlfriend every time I visit."

The pair of them spend a relaxing hour together, enjoying their food and chatting about Joe's experiences working in a restaurant.

"I've never worked in food service," Stirling admits.

"You don't have to brag about it!"

"I wasn't! Instead, I wore revealing clothing and danced and sang on a stage. I don't know which is worse or more degrading - being yelled at by an angry dinner patron because they received the wrong salad or being groped by a drunk who dives onto the stage at the most opportune moment."

"That's a tough one," agrees Joe, nodding his head. "I think it might depend on what the woman looks like who is doing the groping."

Stirling laughs.

After their delicious lunch, Joe walks her out to the Land Rover, pausing before he opens the door.

"Ready for the beach?"

"Where?"

"Here. We have two choices - Constantine Bay or Treyarnon Bay. There's also Booby's Bay but it's too dangerous for swimming; it's more a surfers' beach."

"Booby's Bay?"

"I knew you would ask and I have no idea why," Joe says, helping her into the Land Rover.

As they drive down the very narrow beach access road through the small town of Constantine Bay, they pass numerous groups of young people and families, all on their way to the beach. At the end of the road near the beach access point, Joe manages to find a spot to park the vehicle. It helps that it has four-wheel drive and the word "Police" plus the Devon and Cornwall force's crest emblazoned on the side.

Joe grabs the rucksacks from the back of the Land Rover as Stirling puts her Tilley hat on.

They hold hands, each carrying a bag, as they walk along the beach access path, eventually reaching the west-facing beach at its most southerly end. It's very long and wide, with sand dunes between the beach and the rock cliffs. It's also speckled with hundreds of people.

"Wow," says Stirling. "I think most of Cornwall is here today."

"More like most of London," says Joe, leading her down to the water's edge and then north, searching for a spot to sit that isn't swarming with screaming young children or yelling teenagers. Eventually they find a nice location beside a rock outcropping.

"When the tide comes in, these rocks become little islands," Joe says, unfurling the large beach blanket over the sand, anchoring each of the corners with a fist-sized rock. "But we won't have to worry about that for awhile."

He sets the rucksacks down beside the rocks and pulls off his T-shirt, repositioning his hat on his head.

"Want to test the water?" he asks with a grin.

Stirling looks around uncertainly. She doesn't want to be but she's still slightly nervous about uncovering her scars. But she eventually shrugs and pulls off her T-shirt as well before kicking off her sandals and stepping out of her shorts. She grabs Joe's hand and they walk down to the water, dodging the odd annoyed crab walking on the beach, claws snapping.

At first the water seems cold but Stirling soon becomes acclimatized, wading out deeper and eventually dunking her head under. She comes up laughing, invigorated by the cold. Joe goes under as well, soaking his ball cap in the process. He grabs Stirling and pulls her against him, kissing her as she puts her arms around his shoulders. And together, they both go under as a large wave hits them.

They splash and play in the water like children for what seems like hours before, blue lipped and shivering, Stirling is forced by the cold to go back to dry land. She plunks on her Tilley hat, wraps herself in a towel and lays on her stomach on the blanket, leafing through one of her medical magazines until she finds an interesting article. Joe stretches out beside her, pulling a police procedural thriller from his bag to read. They lie side-by-side in companionable silence, completely oblivious to the sounds of screeching seagulls, crying toddlers, shouting parents and laughing teenagers echoing from all around them.

Eventually, Stirling closes her magazine and lies her head on her folded arms, turning to watch Joe read his book. He glances at her several times, before marking his page and setting the book aside. He, too, folds his arms to provide a pillow for his head and turns to look at her. She inches her body closer to him and he inches closer to her until he can wrap his arms around her. She nestles her head under his chin, her face pressed against his chest, and immediately dozes off.

When she awakes, the sun has dropped lower in the sky, inching closer to the sea. Both she and Joe are covered with towels, protecting them from the cool breeze coming off the water and the sun. She lifts up her head and looks around, surprised to see that many people have left the beach. There are still some straggling families and stubborn teens but there are now more people walking their dogs up and down the water's edge, enjoying a late afternoon walk.

As Stirling sits up, Joe opens his eyes.

"I must have nodded off," he says with a yawn and a stretch, sitting up on the blanket next to her.

"We both did," she says with a shiver.

She digs behind her for her T-shirt and shorts, hoping to warm up by putting on her clothes. She eventually has to dig her sweater out of the rucksack and put it on.

"I guess we should get going," Joe says unenthusiastically, gathering up their belongings and packing them away.

Stirling knows how he feels. She, too, is hesitant to leave the beach, even with the chilly breeze.

"I had a wonderful time," she says, grabbing his hand as they walk back to the parking area, which is almost completely empty.

Driving out of Constantine Bay, Stirling gazes wistfully in the side mirror, watching the town disappear with distance.

"Would you like an ice cream?" Joe asks as they near Padstow.

"Yes," she says with a smile.

They park near the harbour this time, buying two cones from an ice cream van parked there. They sit together on a bench along the boardwalk and watch the boats go by on the River Camel.

All too soon, the ice cream is gone.

Reluctantly, they climb back into the Land Rover and Joe heads back to Portwenn. As he drives, Stirling leans her head on his left shoulder, holding his hand against his left leg.

In Portwenn, he pulls into a parking space beside the surgery and turns off the vehicle.

"Did you enjoy your last day of freedom before going back to work?" Joe asks.

She nods her head, not trusting her voice. She suddenly feels nostalgic for the lazy days they had enjoyed on their private beach. But still, there is a part of her that is very excited about treating patients again.

Joe slowly climbs out of his side of the Land Rover and opens the back, pulling out her rucksack. Just as slowly, Stirling climbs down from the passenger side and walks up the stairs to the front garden of the surgery before walking around to the back door.

Taking her rucksack from Joe, she digs for her keys in a side pocket. As she slides the key into the lock, she stops, sets her rucksack down gently, and turns to face Joe. They stare at each other for a moment before lunging forward, kissing hungrily. His arms wrap around her, hers around him as they kiss passionately. He pushes her against the back door, giving Stirling a flash of deja vu. But she instantly banishes it from her mind as she runs her fingers through his hair, forcing his mouth harder against hers.

Suddenly, their lips separate from one another.

"Do you want to come in?" Stirling asks, feeling like something is caught in her throat.

Joe hesitates.

"Do you really want me to?" he asks uncertainly.

"Yes."

Still he hesitates.

Stirling feels a sinking feeling in her stomach as he backs away from her slightly, a flash of fear in his eyes.

"I better not," he says softly. "You have a big day tomorrow."

In disbelief, she watches him turn and practically sprint away from the back door. She's still standing there, motionless, when the Land Rover fires up and drives away.

It takes Stirling a few minutes to shake off the shock of his sudden departure. She's not sure whether to feel angry or sad. Instead, she feels numb as she picks up her rucksack and unlocks the door, slowly walking into her empty, dark, lonely house.

* * *

As he drives through Portwenn, Joe is cursing at himself.

_You chicken shit wanker_, he thinks. _She invites you in and you panic like a teenage boy._

He pulls into the police station parking area, spitting gravel as he hits the brakes.

"Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!" he yells, banging his fist against the steering wheel.

He jumps out of the vehicle, slamming the door in anger. The violent action makes him feel no better so he kicks at a tire, stubbing his toe quite painfully in the process. He limps to the back of the Land Rover and pulls out his rucksack, slamming the back door as well. He still doesn't feel any better.

He manages to unlock his door before he kicks it in and throws the rucksack, his hat, and his shoes in a pile in the front vestibule of his dark, empty, lonely house.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" he yells, switching on the kitchen light. He stands there for a moment, uncertain what to do.

He wanders in to the lounge and turns on the telly, racing through the channels in search of anything interesting. Nothing.

He sits down on the chesterfield, his left leg gyrating with pent up anger and energy.

_I can't do this_, he thinks, standing up and shutting off the TV. _I have to get out of here. I have to do something._

Joe goes upstairs and takes a quick shower, washing off the salt and the sand of the day. Wearing just a towel, he walks into his bedroom and looks around, trying to decide what to do. Out of habit, he puts on a clean pair of boxer shorts and his uniform pants. He takes a clean, starched uniform shirt out of the closet and puts it on, calmly doing up each button. He clips on a black tie and pulls on his blue uniform pullover, adjusting the epaulettes so they lay straight and flat. Lastly, he pulls on black dress socks and his highly buffed dress shoes.

Back downstairs, he grabs his duty belt from the peg where it hangs just inside the connecting door to the station. As he clips it on, ensuring his hand-held radio is secure and slipping his mobile into its pouch, he makes up his mind.

_I'll walk the beat_, he thinks. _I'll do the rounds of Portwenn and that will help me calm down._

Joe whistles as he walks out his front door, locking it behind him.

It's twilight as he walks up the hill into Portwenn proper. The sun set almost an hour ago but it's still light out. A few groups of people still walk the streets, either hurrying home or on their way to The Crab and Lobster.

As he walks down the high street, Joe checks the doors at various businesses to ensure they are locked and haven't been tampered with. At the harbour, he shines his flashlight into the darkness, looking for shadowy figures trying to steal items from fishing boats or suspicious people lurking about. All is quiet.

He enters The Crab and Lobster and does a quick walk through, making sure no underage drinkers are hiding in the back dining room or the loo.

"How you doing, Joe?" the barkeep says, giving him a friendly wave. "Getting excited about the big ceremony?"

Joe ignores him, walking out the door back into the night.

He climbs several of the side streets, checking the doors of the community hall and the village church.

Eventually, he finds himself back at the harbour.

He looks up the hill at the surgery.

_I'll just check the front door_, he tells himself as he walks up the hill and the stairs onto the front flagstones. The Triumph is parked near the front door, waiting for the morning.

As Joe reaches to check the front door, he notices lights are still on in the kitchen. He can faintly hear the sound of a violin.

Somehow, he finds himself at the back door. He's not sure how he's ended up there but he's obviously knocked because the door swings open and he finds himself face to face with Stirling.

* * *

Stirling has been restless since arriving home. She's not sure what to do. She has packed and triple checked her doctor's bag for tomorrow and even read through the patient charts twice. She has her route memorized down to the smallest detail, including where she should stop for the best lunch choices.

She considers going to bed but knows she'll never get to sleep.

She bangs away on the Steinway for a few minutes but can't concentrate.

She decides to pick up the violin. She's managed to limp her way through one piece very, very badly when she hears a knock at the back door.

_Just what I need, a late night medical emergency_, she thinks, walking to the door and opening it wide.

There, standing on the back step, looking very handsome in his uniform but with a lost look on his face, is Joe.

They stand in silence for a moment, staring at each other.

"I don't know why I'm here," he eventually says. "I was just walking my rounds through the village and suddenly I ended up here."

Stirling stares at him.

"I was checking businesses to make sure doors were properly looked. I double checked the chemists like I always do. I did a walk through of The Crab and Lobster and checked the harbour for suspicious activity. I even inspected the community hall."

He's babbling but he just can't stop himself.

Slowly, Stirling reaches forward with her left hand and takes one of his, guiding him gently through the door way and into the kitchen. Still holding his hand, she reaches behind him, shuts the door and locks it.

"I'm telling you, I have no idea what I'm doing here," he says.

She reaches out and places a finger against his lips, stopping him from talking.

"Shhhh," she says, removing her finger.

Pulling him gently by the hand, Stirling leads Joe through the piano room, shutting off lights as she goes. They walk past the front entrance way, into the waiting room and up the stairs. He follows her mutely into her bedroom, waiting as she shuts the door behind them.


	39. Chapter 38

She's not sure what wakes her. Is it the room brightening with the approach of dawn? Or did the warm body next to her shift? At first Stirling's not sure where she is. It looks like her bedroom. It feels like her bed but it seems smaller, warmer, softer. She has no clothes on. And then she remembers.

If she could purr with contentment, Stirling knows she would.

Joe is lying next to her, breathing softly and regularly in her ear. It's his arm around her; his hand touching her back; his chest her cheek is pressed against; his chin brushing the top of her head. Stirling remembers all of it.

She moves slowly at first, shifting her head back to her pillow, disentangling her limbs from his. He grumbles softly and nestles his head deeper into his own pillow, rearranging his arms. His breathing evens again.

She watches him, his brow wrinkling for a moment and then smoothing, the dreamy worry gone.

She smiles and stretches. What a night.

The room shows it. Clothes lie scattered across the floor, shoes kicked wherever, sopping wet towels are puddled beside the bed. Joe's duty belt hangs from one of the posts at the foot of the bed.

_At least he won't have to hunt for that_, she thinks, noting the radio still tucked safely in its pouch.

The bedside clock reads 7 a.m. Ninety minutes left before surgery begins for the day; 90 minutes before she has to start her house call rounds.

Stirling cuddles against Joe again, wrapping her arm around his chest, burrowing her nose into his neck, smelling his manly musk, kissing his shoulder, pressing her stomach against his hip. She lifts her chin and kisses his bristly cheek, nibbles his ear, moves her lips up to his dark eyebrows, his forehead.

"Good morning," she whispers between kisses.

Joe smiles, his eyes closed, unwilling to let in the light of morning, unwilling to have the night be over.

"It's not morning," he whispers back, rolling his body so it covers Stirling's. He kisses her neck, her lips, her eyes, her lips again, deeper. His hands softly grip her sides, his thumbs tickling under her breasts.

She laughs, wrapping her arms around his torso, rubbing his back with her hands, moving them lower.

"It's 7 o'clock in the morning," she says, dodging his lips. "And we have to get ready for work."

She shifts her weight quickly and is soon on top, her body trapping his under her. He squirms, trying to unseat her, laughing. She sits up, the blankets falling from her shoulders, bracing her hands against his chest, smiling. Joe stills, his eyes travel up her body to her eyes. She knows what he wants; she wants it too. She wants the night to go on and on, to never end, for her never to leave that warm cocoon of a bed, never to be parted from his supportive arms, his hands, his warm body, his lips. She leans down and kisses him, hard and deep and endless. She gives in, melding her body against his.

* * *

The clock reads 7:30 a.m. They have 60 minutes. Stirling shifts her body from under Joe's sleeping form. He grumbles and mutters again but is back to sleep in seconds. Grabbing her dressing gown from a hook on the bathroom door, Stirling wraps herself in the fuzzy material. She wants to crawl back under those blankets, she wants to be next to Joe again but she can't. There are patients waiting for her.

She watches him sleep a little longer, not wanting to break the peace of the moment, the magic. She touches his muscled shoulder.

"Joe, you have to get up," Stirling says softly. She moves her hand to his face, cups his cheek, messes his hair, kisses his forehead. "Get up, lover boy."

He grumbles, rolls over and presses his face into the pillow, throwing the covers up over his head.

"Joe," she says louder, pulling back the blankets.

He yanks them back, his dark hair disappearing within the folds.

Stirling gives up.

_I'll give him another 15 minutes_, she decides as she walks into the bathroom, closing the door softly behind her.

This room also shows the effects of the night. Bubbly puddles dampen the floor in spots, the smell of bath oils still strong. Another pile of towels lie heaped beside the claw-footed tub.

_Laundry tonight_, Sterling muses as she takes one of the larger damp towels from the pile and mops the floor. She finds a fresh bath mat under the sink and replaces the sopping one plastered to the floor tile. She shivers as she immerses her hand in the freezing cold bathwater and pulls the plug. They'd both been a bit too preoccupied last night to remember to drain the tub.

Stirling turns on the tap in the walk-in shower. As she waits for the water to heat up, she piles the dirty towels and clothes in the bathroom hamper, separating out Joe's items.

_He'll need to wear something home,_ she thinks.

After a quick shower and hair wash, Stirling returns to the bedroom, selecting her clothes for the day from her dresser and wardrobe. Although he has kicked the covers off, Joe is still fast asleep.

As she dresses, Stirling watches his bare back, rise and fall in deep even breaths. She longs to touch him, run her hands up his spine, grip his hair with her fingers, kiss him, love him. Her breath catches in her throat.

_This won't do_, she thinks.

She has to go. He has to go. There is work to do.

_Damn._

Downstairs, she hears the front door unlock, open, and then shut. Morwenna has arrived. The Chief is probably already making his first espresso of the day in the kitchen.

Stirling pulls on her boots and grabs her coat from the back of her reading chair.

The clock reads 8:20 a.m.

"Joe," she whispers, crawling onto the bed beside him. She shakes him gently. "You have to get up, gorgeous. Come on. I have to cure the pseudo sick and you need to ticket illegally parked cars."

Joe groans and rolls onto his back, covering his eyes with a hastily flung arm.

"No," he moans, pulling her toward him. "Come back to bed. We'll call in sick."

Stirling laughs as she quickly kisses him and backs off the bed, away from his clutching hands.

"I can't. It's my first day back. I've been off sick for two months. The Chief's relying on me."

"And the town is counting on you," she adds as she pulls on her leather jacket. "Anarchy will reign without Sergeant Joe Penhale to keep the people of Portwenn on the straight and narrow."

He groans again and rolls onto his stomach, reaching blindly for the blankets piled at the end of the bed. He pulls them up and hugs them against his body, eyes firmly shut against the streaming sunlight.

Stirling smiles as she shakes her head.

"By the time you get your arse in gear, there's going to be a waiting room full of patients down there. You're going to be performing the walk of shame down those stairs."

She perches on her knees beside the bed and gently kisses Joe's slightly parted sleeping lips.

"And they are all going to know what you were up to last night. What we were up to. Everyone will know the area sergeant had a sleepover with the town's female doc. The news will beat you back to the station."

She kisses him again, watching his face relax back into sleep.

"And I couldn't care less," she whispers, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. "I'll take all the teasing and the jokes. I'll put up with the back talk from the giggling girls and the ribbing at the pub. The village can have its fun. I'll even tolerate the lecture I know is coming from the Chief. You know why? Because I love you."

She finally said it.

Stirling kisses him one long last lingering time and stands up, ready for the day ahead of her.

"I had a wonderful night," she says, pausing at the door. "I'll miss you."

She closes the door softly behind her and tiptoes down the stairs, careful not to clomp too loudly on the steps with her riding boots.

The clock reads 8:25 a.m.

* * *

He's not sure what wakes him. Is it the blindingly bright sunlight streaming through the window? Or did he roll into the cool patch on the mattress where a warm, soft body used to be curled next to him?

The clock reads 8:30 a.m.

Joe sits up in bed with a gasp. He doesn't know where he is. This isn't his bedroom. This isn't his bed. He has no clothes on. And then he remembers.

He smiles and lies back slowly, resting his head on the flattened pillow; the pillow that smells of her. He closes his eyes and breathes in her scent deeply, trying to slow his thumping heart.

Stirling. He, Joseph Penhale, spent the night with Stirling; beautiful, lovely, intelligent, funny Stirling. It wasn't a dream. It was real.

Joe sits bolt upright again.

Stirling.

He remembers waking to her kisses, the play wrestling, the eventual surrender, the wonderful spoils of victory.

He smiles at the memory.

He remembers being awoken again. More kisses. The cajoling. She called him lover boy. He remembers her shaking him. She called him gorgeous. More kisses. There was something about the walk of shame, being teased and lectured.

Because I love you.

Suddenly Joe is moving quickly, grabbing clothing from the floor.

_Trousers - check; shirt - check, pullover - check. Shorts? Bathroom_, he recalls, slipping on the wet tile as he races in. He finds his boxers and socks folded neatly on top of the hamper.

Stirling.

Joe jumps from one foot to the other as he pulls on his pants followed closely by his uniform trousers. He sits on the edge of the mussed bed as he pulls on his socks. Shoes? Shoes? He finds one under the reading chair. He is slipping on his shirt when he spots the other peeking out from beneath a pile of wet towels beside the bed.

_Soaker,_ he thinks as he slides his foot into the wet cavity.

He grabs his tie from the lampshade where it was tossed at some point in the night and shoves it into his trouser pocket.

He runs for the door, his shirt undone, one hand holding up his unbuttoned trousers, the other clutching his pullover.

"Stirling," Joe calls down the staircase.

He stops suddenly and runs back to the bed, grabbing for his duty belt hanging from the bedpost. The belt doesn't clear the post in time and Joe finds himself pulled backward, falling on his bum with a loud thump. The radio bounces from its pouch and clatters to the floor beside him, squawking in protest.

* * *

Downstairs in the waiting room, all eyes are on the ceiling as if expecting some creature to fall through it. The thumping has been going on for about two minutes so far, sounding very much like a classroom of unruly toddlers tap dancing badly.

Morwenna is baffled.

It can't be Doc Stirling, who is clearly visible through the front window packing and preparing the Triumph for her day of house calls. And the Doc is already seeing patients in the consulting room at the back of the surgery.

So what is going on upstairs?

The waiting room is full and everyone is gazing heavenwards as Mrs. Telfer leaves the consulting room, racing for the front door. She wipes at her eyes with a half dissolved tissue as she sniffles loudly, slamming the door behind her.

"Next patient," Doc calls from behind his desk, making a quick note in the patient file.

No one moves.

After waiting a few seconds, Doc walks out to the waiting room, sighing with impatience.

"Next patient."

They all continue to stare at the ceiling, even Morwenna. They seem so enraptured that the Doc even has a quick glance upward, seeing only the familiar rafters.

_Morwenna needs to wipe down that dust_, he decides, walking over to her desk.

"Next patient," he shouts, causing Morwenna to jump in her chair. Her hands scramble for a file folder on her desk.

"Your turn, Nigel," she says with a smile, handing the middle-aged man his patient notes and sending him on his way.

The consulting room door has just closed when a disembodied voice echoes down the stairs: "Stirling!"

Once again, all eyes are riveted to the ceiling as more thumping is heard followed by a loud thud and a crash. There is silence for a moment, a radio squawk, a muted oath and then someone with very loud shoes is pounding down the stairs.

"Stirling!" the obviously male voice calls again.

Morwenna smiles and begins to giggle as Sergeant Penhale half runs, half falls down the stairs, landing with a thump in the waiting room. His dark hair is unruly and standing on end. It's obvious he hasn't shaved. His normally impeccable uniform shirt hangs open and untucked, his bare chest visible to all and his black tie completely absent. In one hand he grips his duty belt and dark blue uniform pullover. His other hand is holding up his obviously unbuttoned trousers. Black heart covered boxer shorts peek out through his open zipper.

Everyone in the room is staring, the silence roaring in Joe's ears.

He struggles to put his kit in order, dropping his belt and pullover as he fumbles to button and tuck in his shirt plus do up his trousers, all at the same time.

It's a lost cause.

Joe stands as straight and proud as he can in his current state of undress.

"Good morning," he says to the waiting patients. "Looks like a lovely day."

No one says a word. No one moves. No one even blinks.

He turns to a still-laughing Morwenna and asks the all-important question: "Stirling?"

Unable to speak for laughing so hard, she gestures out the front window with a trembling hand.

Joe's relief is visible. There's his beautiful Stirling, packing the Triumph. He hasn't missed her.

"Thank you, Morwenna," he gushes, leaning across her desk to kiss her on the cheek in a moment of carefree abandon. He grabs his kit and stumbles out the front door.

Even before it has closed, everyone in the waiting room is in motion, jostling and pushing for an unhindered view out the front window. A few even move their chairs and stand on them to see over the heads of the others. This is going to be better than Coronation Street.

* * *

Stirling has just stowed a snack and an extra bottle of water in the Triumph's saddle bags when the front door bangs open behind her. She turns quickly, expecting another sobbing patient.

"Joe!" she cries, choking back a giggle at his rather dishevelled appearance. She can imagine the reception that greeted him as he came down the stairs. There will be no misunderstandings about what he was up to last night. What they were up to.

She blushes at the thought, a flutter of excitement tickling her stomach at the memory.

"I thought I had - I thought I had missed you," Joe stutters, fumbling with his shirt buttons again. Now that she is in front of him, he's tongue-tied and uncertain, unsettled by her beautiful pink cheeks. At least his fingers seem to be working better.

"I was just about to push off ..." Sterling starts, gesturing back to the motorcycle, but Joe quickly cuts her off.

"There's something I have to say to you," he blurts out, shoving his shirttails into his trousers. "I fell asleep. I didn't mean to and it wasn't for long, maybe five minutes. And when I woke up, you were gone."

"I tried ..." Stirling attempts but is stopped again by Joe, who has finally managed to button his trousers.

"Let me finish," he whispers, touching a finger to her lips.

"It took me a moment to remember. But then I did; all of it. The bathtub, the bathroom floor, the kitchen counter, the stairs, the reading chair, the bed. I remembered all of it."

Joe's voice is husky with emotion as he lists off the locations. The excitement in Stirling's stomach builds.

_Oh my god_, she thinks, trying not to tremble.

"And this morning; I remember that too, including what you said to me," he says, wrapping his arms around her. "I enjoyed last night as well." He kisses her nose. "And I'm going to miss you while you're out making house calls." He kisses both her eyes. "And I love you, possibly more than you will ever know."

His kiss is long, and deep and passionate. Stirling never wants it to end as she shivers against him.

_Maybe I should call in sick,_ she thinks wildly. _Lovesick._

She feels herself beginning to let go, give into the moment, just as Joe pulls back from the embrace.

"You know, you've ruined it for me," he says as she gasps with emotion, clutching his shoulders for balance.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't think I can sleep without you," he says, his voice catching as he kisses her gently. "This morning, I only lasted five minutes without you near me. I need - no - I want you in my bed from this day forward."

If it wasn't for Joe's strong embrace, Stirling knows her knees would buckle. Her heart is pounding, her teeth are chattering, her hands are shaking as she returns his kiss, body pressing against body, passion met with passion.

"Tonight," Joe says between kisses. "Dinner at my place. And then it's straight to bed."

"Doctor's orders?" Stiring questions, meeting him kiss for kiss.

"My orders."

Again, her knees feel weak.

_Don't let go_, she thinks as her practical voice reminds her there are patients waiting.

* * *

The sexual tension in the surgery waiting room is palpable. The women are fanning themselves with magazines as the men shift uncomfortably from foot to foot, pulling and adjusting their trouser waists and legs. All eyes are on the couple just outside the front window, clasped together in quite possibly the most passionate embrace ever seen or experienced in Portwenn.

No one notices the consulting room door open, the demand for another patient, the deliberate voice clearing, the sharp rapid strides. And if they do, they don't care.

"What on Earth is going on here?" Doc demands, glaring in disbelief at the crowd assembled around the surgery's front window.

"Ooooh," says Mrs. Pousty breathlessly as she faces the Doc, her eyes glazing over with an almost unbridled excitement. "Doc Stirling and Sergeant Penhale are snogging in the front garden. It's so romantic."

"WHAT?"

Within seconds he is out the front door.

"Good god," Doc shouts, his voice echoing down the hill and into the village. "Stop that this instant. This isn't a nature program!"

The commanding voice pulls them apart and reality returns to Stirling and Joe. The passionate embrace may be over for now but their fingers search out each others hands as they turn to face an obviously irate Doc.

"Chief ..." starts Stirling but she is shut down quickly.

"You," he says, pointing at Joe. "Don't you have keys to get out of locked vehicles or stray dogs to chase?"

"And you," he says, turning to Stirling, his glare unreadable. "You're late for rounds."

"I was ..."

"Go!"

"I'll see you tonight," Joe whispers as he quickly kisses Stirling's cheek, his breath tickling her ear.

"ENOUGH! I'll turn the hose on you animals. Go."

Doc marches back into the surgery, clapping his hands as he enters the waiting room.

"Show's over. Go sit down."

Morwenna picks up the phone receiver and is already dialing Al's mobile as she hands Mrs. Pousty her patient notes.

"Next patient."

Stirling dons her helmet and adjusts her goggles before kicking the Triumph to life. She backs off the kickstand and drives slowly down the hill, giving a small wave as she passes Joe adjusting his duty belt as he walks back to the station. She's about 10 minutes out of Portwenn before she realizes she's gone in the wrong direction for her first call.


	40. Chapter 39

**Morwenna Newcross**

"You will never guess what just happened!"

"No. No. No. No."

"I'm telling you, in one hundred years, you will never guess!"

"No. No. No. No."

"Shut your gob and let me tell you!"

"Joe Penhale and Doc Stirling were having it off last night!"

"In the surgery, upstairs in her bedroom!"

"I am not lying!"

"He just got chased off the premises by Doc Martin."

"Honest! There was all this banging going on upstairs and I couldn't figure out what it was because Doc Stirling was out front and the Doc was seeing patients. Next thing I know, Joe falls down the stairs!"

"It was the funniest thing ever! His pants and shirt weren't even done up and we could all see his boxer shorts!"

"Black with red hearts."

"Yeah, he sort of fell down the stairs right into the waiting room."

"I don't know. It was pretty full, I'd say about seven or eight patients."

"He went out the front door where Doc Stirling was loading her Triumph and he told her that he loved her. It was so sweet!"

"Are you kidding? They were copping off right there, right in front of the window, in front of the surgery, in front of everyone. Doc Martin threatened to turn the hose on them!"

"Oh yeah, he came out of the consulting room and wondered what everyone was doing looking out the front window. He was some miffed when Mrs. Pousty told him what was going on. He was all: 'Stop that this instant! This isn't a nature program!'"

"Oh! Oh! Oh! You know what else he said?"

"No, Joe; not Doc Martin!"

"He told Doc Stirling that he couldn't sleep without her beside him and from today onward he wanted her in his bed!"

"He did so! I was right there! I heard everything! She's going to his place tonight, he's going to make dinner and then they're going to boff."

"I am not making this up!"

"I thought they were all going to faint! Mrs. Pousty and Edna Ferris were fanning themselves with magazines and you should have seen the blokes! Crikey! I'm telling you, there's going to be some how's your father going on in this village tonight!"

"So, what are you doing for lunch?"

"I thought you might want to come home. I can make you something."

"I just feel like it."

"Well, don't you have the dirty mind! You're a nasty man!"

"I guess you'll just have to come home and find out."

"I'll see you later. Love you."

* * *

**Edna Ferris**

"Hello? Sally? It's Edna."

"I'm a bit iffy in the tummy but for the rest, okay."

"I was just up at the surgery seeing Doc Martin about my indigestion when the most extraordinary thing occurred."

"I'll tell you. It appears our Doc Stirling and PC Penhale are together, if you know what I mean. They're having relations."

"I know!"

"I was sitting in the waiting room for my turn with the Doc and there was all this banging and racket going on upstairs."

"No, she wasn't there, she was outside with that motorcycle of hers."

"Anyway, next thing we know, PC Penhale comes absolutely flying down the stairs. And he was only half dressed! You could see his unmentionables."

"No, not that! His pants; his boxers!"

"Black with red hearts."

"He asks Morwenna where Doc Stirling is and she points out the front window. He kisses her - No, Morwenna, on the cheek! - and runs out the front door. So we all want to take a butchers and see what's what."

"No, he was seeing a patient in the consulting room."

"I don't know what the hell he was wearing, Sally! A suit?"

"So PC Penhale runs out the door and he and Doc Stirling start snogging in the front garden. Yes, in front of all of us!"

"Well, I couldn't see that because Bob Ketchum's big melon got in the way."

"There was about nine or 10 of us."

"It was shameful, Sally, absolutely shameful the way that pair were carrying on out there. Anyone walking or driving by would have seen them. He's a police constable and she's a doctor! And they're not even married!"

"Well, you would expect better behavior from people like that!"

"And the things he said to her!"

"PC Penhale."

"He told her she had to be in his bed every night from now on. He ordered her!"

"Yes, he did! He told her she's to go to the police station tonight, make him dinner and then shag with him."

"He told her to!"

"I didn't hear anything about handcuffs."

"I didn't hear anything else because Doc Martin stormed outside. He was so angry! He sent PC Penhale packing."

"He can't have those sorts of goings on happening in front of the surgery in broad daylight!"

"I've just been in a kerfuffle since it happened, Sally. It was just so shocking!"

"No, I understand, you have customers. I'll talk to you later."

"Ta."

* * *

"Hello? Bob? It's Edna Ferris from down the lane."

"I'm fine. How are you?"

"That's good to hear."

"Bob, I'm planning on cooking up a chicken tonight and was wondering if you might be interested in joining me for dinner?"

"I think I might even bake a gooseberry pie for dessert."

"Well, I'm on my own now and I know it's been a few years since Sarah passed on. I was planning this big meal and thought you might enjoy some."

"You're free tonight?"

"That's wonderful!"

"You're welcome to bring some wine if you have some."

"Brilliant!"

"I'll see you around 6:30 then."

"Thanks Bob."

"Ta."

* * *

**Mrs. Pousty**

"Oy! Chadwick! It's Muriel. Pousty, you daft old bird!"

"Listen, you'll never guess what happened up at the surgery this morning. It involved that police constable you're always going on about."

"Yeah, the one that looks right fit in the tight trousers."

"Guess what? He's bonking the new doc."

"No, not Doc Martin! The other one, the woman, Doc Stirling!"

"He almost got caught this morning with his pants down, literally."

"Let's just say everyone in the surgery waiting room got a good look at his boxers."

"Black with red hearts."

"I couldn't tell you, Chadwick, I didn't see that!"

"It was pretty easy to tell he'd spent the night. He was only half dressed. His shirt and trousers were undone, his tie was missing, he looked like he'd been ridden hard and put away wet, if you get my meaning."

"I couldn't tell you that! It's not like he stopped and described his night for us."

"He went outside and started copping off with the female doc. Right out front of the surgery, in front of all of us."

"I don't know. I think there was about 11 of us there."

"I'm telling you, Chadwick, it was hotter than the beach scene with Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in _From Here to Eternity_. It was sexier than the pond scene with Colin Firth from _Pride and Prejudice_."

"I had to fan myself with a magazine, I was so randy. Bob Ketchum was looking attractive to me while I was watching that snogfest."

"All these years, I've really underestimated that constable. I just didn't think he had it him. But could he ever talk dirty!"

"Chadwick, he ordered her to come to his house tonight and service him. Said she had to be in his bed or else. It was unbelievably stimulating. Forget _Fifty Shades of Grey_; it should be_ Fifty Shades of Penhale_! From what I saw this morning, I'd wager he's always on top and knows exactly how to give pleasure with a pair of handcuffs."

"Gerald has that bad ticker but the way I'm feeling, I just might risk it tonight. No, Chadwick, don't try to talk me out of it. You weren't there. If you were, you'd probably be on an air plane right now to California to hunt down that Snoopy the Dog character."

"This whole experience has breathed new life into me. I can feel the fire in my loins again, Chadwick. I feel sensuous, alive!"

"I'll let you know how it goes."

* * *

**Sally Tishell**

"Hello? Caroline?"

"It's Sally Tishell from the chemists in Portwenn."

"You'll never guess what I just heard happened at the surgery this morning ..."

"Sure, I can wait until you load the next song."

* * *

**Louisa Ellingham**

"Hello Morwenna. Is Martin in?"

"I've tried the house and his mobile but he's not answering. I thought he might be in the surgery."

"Oh, no, it's nothing important. It's just I've been hearing some disturbing rumours at the school about something strange happening at the surgery this morning."

"Well, one of the parents, Amy Heygle, mentioned she heard that Martin and Joe Penhale had a fist fight in the front garden of the surgery. And Maddie, the school's secretary, said she has it on good authority that Martin and Stirling are having an affair.

"Now, I grew up here and I know this is a small village and rumours are part of life, but these sounded so strange and completely outrageous, even for Portwenn, I wanted to check to make sure everything is okay."

"Yes. Yes. Oh, really?"

"He fell down the stairs? Was he all right?"

"Yes. Yes. Yes. Black with red hearts? Okay."

"Yes. Yes. Really? Oh my!"

"He did what?"

"I just want to make sure I have the story straight in my mind. What you're saying happened is two consenting adults, Joe Penhale and Stirling, spent the night together at the surgery. When Joe woke up this morning, he couldn't find Stirling because she was already getting ready for her first day back to work. Correct?"

"Good. So, Joe goes in search of her, half falls-half runs down the surgery stairs only partially clothed, making a memorable entrance into a waiting room containing about eight or nine patients."

"Everyone gets an eyeful of his bare chest and boxer shorts, which happen to be black with red hearts. When he asks, you point out that Stirling is in front of the surgery, he kisses you on the cheek in gratitude, and runs out the door."

"Then, all of the patients in the waiting room, plus you, crowd around the front window and watch Joe and Stirling share their personal feelings for each other and kiss passionately until Martin comes out, splits up the couple being spied on by a bunch of busybodies, and then scares everyone back into their seats."

"Does that sound about right to you, Morwenna?"

"Yes. Yes. Is that so? That does sound very romantic. Did you ever consider that maybe you shouldn't have been watching or eavesdropping on a private conversation?"

"I see. Well thank you for clearing that up for me. You have a nice lunch break."

"Bye."

* * *

Louisa picks up a magazine for primary school heads and begins fanning herself with it. As she sits, thinking, she turns her desk chair so she is looking out the large window that provides an unhindered view of the surgery across the harbour.

"Black boxer short with red hearts," she mutters to herself, imagining the scenario in her mind.

Immediately, she starts laughing.


	41. Chapter 40

It's about 5:30 p.m. when the Triumph tops the rise of the first hill into Portwenn. Stirling pulls the motorcycle over to the left side of the road and raises her goggles, wiping the sweat from her face and eyes with a cloth she removes from the inside pocket of her leather jacket. It's been a hot day and her water bottles are empty, even the one she reserves for emergencies. She's looking forward to a cool shower and fresh clothing.

She wipes the sweat and condensation that has built up on the inside of her goggles and slides them back over her eyes and helmet. Quickly checking behind her, she pulls back into the left lane and roars down the hill into the village.

Joe is sitting in the police station office finishing up some paperwork on a rash of garden gnome thefts in and around the village when he hears the sound of a motorcycle coming down the first hill into Portwenn. He sprints to the front door of the station and races out onto the front step.

_She hasn't passed yet_, he notes.

He leans casually in the doorway and a few seconds later, the Triumph comes into view. Stirling glances over, sees Joe and immediately applies her brakes, swerving into the police station parking lot quickly to avoid being rear-ended by a car. Joe ducks through the doorway and shuts the door just as the front of the station is peppered with road stone thrown up by the sudden halt of the motorcycle.

He slowly opens the door and peeks around the corner. The Triumph, now shutdown, sits mere feet from the front step, Stirling grinning on the seat as she lifts her goggles and unbuckles her helmet.

"Hiya," she says, removing the head protection and trying unsuccessfully to shake out her sweaty hair. "Sorry about that. Did you miss me?"

Joe, who had been imagining a more sophisticated and suave reunion with Stirling, instead strides quickly out of the station, jumps down the steps and seizes her face in his hands, immediately locking lips with her in a passionate kiss that almost knocks over the Triumph.

"Hmmmm," she mumbles as her arms wrap around him, struggling to keep her balance as she tries to return his kisses while pushing the Triumph onto its kickstand. Somehow, she accomplishes it.

She feels herself being lifted from the seat, her legs automatically wrapping around Joe's torso, her tall riding boots crossing together against his back. The kissing feels amazing but she pulls back with a gasp.

"Wait," she pants, pushing forward to kiss him again.

"What?" he asks breathlessly, pulling back before kissing her again.

Stirling grips the back of his head and struggles to hold her lips against his before she pulls away, desperate for air.

"My bag," she whispers, kissing along his jaw line and down his neck, her hands unclipping his tie and working to unbutton his shirt.

Joe uses one of his hands to unclip her doctor's bag from the Triumph's saddlebags and hands it to her. As he carries her toward the station's open front door, a car whizzes by, the hooter blaring as someone shouts something unintelligible out the window. Neither one of them notice as they stumble through the door, Joe shutting it behind him with his foot. He reaches back blindly and manages to lock it as well.

He stumbles down the hall toward the access door to his apartment, all the time kissing and caressing Stirling.

"Put me down," she whispers, biting at his left ear lobe. "I can walk myself."

"I don't want to let you go," he mutters back, kissing down her neck while unsnapping and unzipping her leather jacket. "I don't ever want to let you go."

He opens the door and carries her through into his kitchen. Another well aimed kick slams the door behind them.

He works at removing her jacket, pulling it down her back and off her arms, taking her doctor's bag with it. He sets the bag on the kitchen table, throwing the jacket beside it. On top, he throws the black blazer she's wearing underneath. She already has his shirt off, her hands rubbing down his shoulder and back as he undoes the buttons of her red blouse, pulling it down her back to join the pile.

He sets her down on the edge of the kitchen table, pulling off her boots and then reaching up to undo her trousers. She's doing the same to him, unbuckling his belt first before opening his trousers and unzipping them. They drop around his ankles and he kicks them off as he grabs the waist of Stirling's trousers and pull them down her legs and off.

He looks at her hungrily as she breathes heavily, perching on the table in her matching grey lace bra and panties. He's wearing blue tartan boxers.

He moves her knees apart and steps in between her legs, his hands moving around to grip her bottom and pull her body against him. She gasps as her legs wrap around him again.

His lips leave her mouth and trace down her neck to her shoulders and lower still to the tops of her breasts. His hands move behind her, trying to undo the clasp of her bra.

"It's in the front," she moans against his mouth as he comes back up her body to kiss her.

"What is?" he asks, still struggling with her bra at the back.

Frustrated, Stirling pulls back from his lips.

"The clasp that undoes my bra," she says, gently moving his hands from her back to her chest. "It's located front and centre on this particular style of brassiere."

"Oh," he says, lowering his head and watching as his hands open the front of the under-garment and push it off her shoulders, down her arms and on to the floor.

"God!" he groans, kissing her shoulders and down her front again, making Stirling gasp and shiver with excitement. "You smell amazing."

"Sex pheromones," she moans as he kisses her breasts. "They're found in human sweat. I've been sweating all day and I really need to take a shower."

"Later," Joe says, kissing down her stomach.

"But there must be a nasty pong about me!"

"If so, you're nasty pong is driving me wild."

Stirling lays back on the kitchen table, nestled in her own clothing as her body squirms in excitement as Joe's lips travel lower.

"Oh my god!" she whispers, her fingers digging through his hair as he kisses the inside of her thighs.

She suddenly finds herself gathered up in his arms again, being carried up the stairs.

"I thought you were going to make me dinner," she teases, kissing then biting his left shoulder.

"I can't wait," he says between kisses. "We can have afters first, then dinner."

* * *

Morwenna is still thinking about lunch as she sits at her desk, staring into space.

The waiting room is empty, the last patient in the consulting room with the Doc. She really should be straightening the room, getting ready to leave for the day, but she can't get the image of lunch with Al out of her mind.

Adding to the distraction is the fact she's starving. She and Al never did actually manage to eat anything during their hour together.

She's imagining dinner in bed when the front door of the surgery opens and Al walks in.

"I was just thinking about you," she says, jumping up from her desk.

She practically leaps into his arms, giving him a long, inviting kiss.

"Wow," says Al. "I should come by the surgery after work every day."

They're still in each others embrace when the consulting room door opens and Eddie Miller and the Doc walk out.

"Let us know if there's any changes in the next week," he's suggesting to Eddie when he notices Morwenna and Al. He pauses, his mouth half open. Eddie keeps walking right out the door.

"Has everyone gone completely crazy today?" the Doc sputters, causing Morwenna and Al to leap away from one another. "First, it's Dr. Aylesworth and Penhale. Then Mrs. Chadwick telephones, upset that Mrs. Pousty is going to kill Gerald Pousty, who has a dicky heart, when they have sexual relations this evening – how she knows they're planning on having sexual relations is unclear. Then Edna Ferris, who already had an appointment this morning, drops by again after lunch with questions about birth control – she's 65 years old! And now this!"

He glares at the pair of them, seemingly unable to put into words how annoyed he is.

"And speaking of Dr. Aylesworth, has she arrived back from home visits yet?"

Morwenna shakes her head.

"Uhh, Doc," says Al, hesitantly. "I don't think she'll be back tonight. When I drove past the police station, she and Joe were in a pretty passionate embrace, just about to enter the building."

The Doc looks like he's ready to explode.

"They were, were they?"

He quickly walks over to Morwenna's desk, picking up the telephone and punching an outside line. He practically beats Stirling's mobile number into the key pad.

He stands tall and straight as he listens to the ring at the other end. Someone picks up.

"Dr. Aylesworth," he says. But that's as far as he gets before he is listening to a dial tone.

"How dare she!"

He pounds her mobile number into the key pad again.

After two rings, someone answers.

"Dr. Aylesworth."

"She's really, really busy right now," says a familiar male voice, somewhat distracted. "Leave a message."

"Penhale? Penhale!"

Dial tone.

"IDIOT!" the Doc shouts.

He punches in the number again. It goes straight to voice mail.

"She's turned off her mobile," he says, completely shocked.

Morwenna and Al aren't sure what he plans on doing next – marching down to the police station and pounding on the door? - but just then, Louisa enters the waiting room from the kitchen.

"Martin? Was that you shouting just a moment ago?"

He turns and looks at her, his eyes still glazed a bit from the shock of being hung up on twice and the mobile being turned off.

"Everyone in this town is in some sort of hormonal flux," he says. "Maybe it's time I had the water tested again."

Louisa gives him a puzzled look and then turns to Morwenna and Al.

"You might as well head home," she says, shooing them toward the front door. "We'll lock up."

The young couple walk out the door together, already planning how to load Morwenna's bicycle into the back of Al's car. Morwenna is also whispering about this excellent idea she has for dinner in bed.

Louisa turns and grabs the Doc's hand.

"It's been a long day," she says. "And I heard it started with a bit of excitement. Let's just go home, have some dinner and relax."

After locking up the front, Louisa and the Doc walk out the back door and down the hill to their own home, hand-in-hand.

* * *

Stirling is half asleep as she relaxes in Joe's strong, warm embrace. Her head is on his chest, her arms draped around his torso while his arms hold her close, one hand stroking her hair gently. She can hear his heart – lub-dub, lub-dub – echoing inside his chest.

"Who was on the mobile?" she asks sleepily.

"Nobody, just some guy yelling," says Joe. "I turned it off after the second call."

"It really should be on in case there's an emergency," she says, moving to sit up. He pulls her back down against his chest.

"Relax," he says, reaching over to the table beside the bed. "I'll switch it back on. Don't move. I'm enjoying you right where you are."

She hears the familiar chirp of her mobile being powered back up.

"Thank you," she mutters, snuggling her head under this chin.

She feels him kiss the top of her head.

"My pleasure. Your wish is my command."

"Really?" she says, smiling. "That could prove interesting."

Her eyes are closed and she feels so relaxed.

"How was your day?" she asks, fighting against the wave of sleep she can feel creeping over her.

"Busy," he says. "A group of holidaymakers damaged one of Dorothy Freeman's guest cottages last night, burnt most of the furniture in a big bonfire in the back garden."

"Did you catch them?"

"It wasn't too difficult. They were still passed out in the yard this morning when I arrived."

Stirling laughs softly at the scenario she imagines in her mind.

"That tickles," he says, brushing back her hair from his face. "Try to keep the laughing to a minimum."

"Then stop being funny."

"Okay bossy! Over the course of the day, I dealt with one person who managed to lock their keys in their car twice. I had a drunk and disorderly, two trespassing calls, one runaway dog – who we found up by the surgery scratching at the back door – one shoplifter, which actually turned out to be a misunderstanding, plus 25 different people in Portwenn and the surrounding area who have contacted the station over the past three days to report that one or more of their garden gnomes are missing."

Stirling is silent for a moment, letting the information sink in.

"Garden gnomes?"

"Yeah, garden gnomes, those little statues people put with their marigolds and chrysanths that look like tiny elves or bunnies or small people who live under mushrooms."

Stirling starts laughing again.

"I know what a garden gnome is," she says. "I'm just curious why someone would want to steal at least 25 of them."

"Blackmail," says Joe.

Stirling sits up quickly so she can see his face.

"You're joking, right?"

He tries to pull her back against his body but she's having none of it.

"You were supposed to be relaxing," he says. "It felt so good with you lying there. Now you've went and moved."

"Because you just finished telling me you think garden gnomes are being stolen from the area as part of a blackmail scheme, which sounds as plausible to me as the damn Portwenn singing fish."

"Don't start on the singing fish again," says Joe. "It's not my fault you don't believe in the legend. Just remember what I told you because I might not always be nearby to protect you."

Stirling stares at Joe, who looks back at her with the most innocent and earnest of expressions.

She decides to drop the singing fish issue – for now.

"Why do you think someone is stealing the garden gnomes of Portwenn for blackmail money?" she asks, dreading the answer.

"Because each of the homeowners received a note," he says, brushing her hair back over her shoulders so he can have an unobstructed view of her bare breasts.

"And what exactly did these alleged blackmail notes state?" she asks.

It's then she notices he's not actually looking directly at her face but rather a bit lower down.

"Hey!" she says with a laugh, giving his left shoulder a soft push. "James Bond! My eyes are up here!"

He looks up at her with a guilty expression.

"And what beautiful eyes they are," he says, putting his arms around her shoulders and pulling her to him for a deep kiss. His kisses continue down her neck and collar bone. "But these are very beautiful, too," he says, his lips progressing lower.

"You're trying to distract me," Stirling says, her eyes closing with pleasure. "And it appears to be working very well."

She lies back in the bed, Joe's body partially covering her as her arms curl around him, gripping his back and sliding lower.

"Does this mean you want seconds?" she asks breathlessly, as she pushes the back of her head deeper into her pillow with a low moan of desire.

* * *

The Doc has just finished rinsing off the last dirty dish and is loading it into the dishwasher when Louisa walks into the kitchen.

"It only took three stories this time," she says, smiling as she pulls out a chair and sits at the kitchen table.

"Would you like a tea or a coffee?" the Doc asks, drying his hands on a clean dishtowel.

Louisa looks up at him with a slight smile.

"I would really enjoy a glass of red wine," she says.

"Now?"

"Yes, now. I don't often get the opportunity to have a glass of wine and I feel like enjoying one this evening."

The Doc gives her a curious look before fetching a wine glass from the cabinet and a bottle of red wine from the rack. He breaks the seal, rotates in the corkscrew and pops out the cork before pouring her half a glass.

She looks at him, silently, not moving.

He fills the rest of the glass and hands it to her.

"Thank you," she says, taking a sip and sighing. "Wonderful."

The Doc pours himself a glass of water.

"Would you like to sit outside and enjoy the evening?" Louisa asks.

"It's getting too dark to read," he says.

"We don't have to read," she says. "We can just enjoy the evening and each others company."

He grunts and picks up his glass, walking to the side door that leads out to their small garden. Louisa follows with her glass of wine. As he settles into his wooden chair, he watches with interest as Louisa moves her chair so it is directly beside his and sits down.

"Why did you do that?"

"Because I want to sit beside my husband, hold his hand, and enjoy my glass of wine while I watch the stars come out," she explains, taking his right hand in her left and relaxing them on her armrest. She looks out at the sun setting over the water as she sips her wine and enjoys the last warmth of the day.

The Doc feels anything but relaxed as he sits rigidly in his chair, gazing every minute or so at his and Louisa's hands clasped together on the chair armrest. He also glances periodically at her as she calmly looks out at the water. At one point, she sighs deeply and leans back in her chair, closing her eyes and smiling.

As he looks at her relaxing in the dying light, he is struck once again by the classic beauty of his wife – her smooth, youthful skin; her easy smile; the healthy sheen of her thick, dark hair; the feminine curves of her body. And for the one millionth time, he reminds himself how lucky he is to have such a partner in his life.

Louisa must sense his eyes on her because she opens hers and looks over at him with a gentle smile.

"If you had told me two years ago that we would be sitting like this, holding hands in the garden of our home while our almost three-year-old son lies asleep inside, I don't think I would have believed you," she says. "We've come a long way. You've come a long way."

She feels the tension leaving his body, his hand relaxing in hers. She holds her breath as he lifts their combined hands and tenderly kisses hers.

"You helped me every step of the journey," he says quietly. "I couldn't have made it without you. I'm not sure I would have wanted to make it without you."

Louisa's smile broadens as she reaches out her hand to cup his right cheek. They lean toward each other across the close space between their chairs and kiss tenderly.

They gaze into each other eyes for several long moments.

_Maybe I should test the water_, the Doc considers as he feels a deep longing and passion for his wife building inside him. _Or maybe this is a special day when the stars are aligned for lovers._

He thinks about that idea for a moment.

_No, highly unlikely. It must be the water. Or perhaps a food contaminant._

"Let's go inside," Louisa suggests softly, standing up from her chair.

The Doc rises with her and, still with her hand in his, leads her back into the house; their home.


	42. Chapter 41

Stirling sits on the kitchen counter, swinging her legs back and forth like a child, as she watches Joe, wearing boxers and a black T-shirt, prepare bangers and mash, with a side of baked beans, for dinner. As the potatoes boil and the sausages fry, he looks over at her and smiles.

"What?"

"Why is it that you always look better in my clothing than I do?" he asks.

She looks down at the white T-shirt and red tartan boxer shorts she's wearing.

"Maybe I just fill them out better," she says with a wink.

"You certainly do," Joe says, seizing her around the torso, pushing his body between her knees and kissing her deeply.

Stirling's enjoying the kiss when she smells something. She opens her eyes, managing to look past Joe's head. She pulls back from his lips.

"Uhmm. I think you better keep your mind on your sausage," says Stirling, pointing at the cooker top. "It's burning."

"Damn!" he says, scrambling back to the frying pan, removing it from the heat as smoke billows from the charred pork.

Ten minutes later, they sit together at the table, examining the blackened bangers.

"The mashed potatoes look good," Stirling says, mixing a mouthful with baked beans and taking a big bite.

"Yummy!"

Joe glares at her as she chews and makes noises of approval.

"Mmmmmm; theeze arw reelly goowd," she says, pointing her fork at the plate, her mouth full of mashed potato and baked beans.

"I blame you for this disaster," he says.

Stirling gulps down her mouthful.

"Me!? What did I do?"

"You distracted me using my own, well filled-out clothing," he says.

She laughs and takes another bite.

"So earlier, before I was so rudely interrupted, I had asked you what exactly the alleged garden gnome blackmail note stated," she reminds him a few minutes later.

"You thought that interruption was rude?" he asks, looking up at her with an innocent expression on his face. "I thought it was a rather pleasant interruption. You appeared excited about it at the time."

"Stop it!" she demands, laughing. "What did the note say?"

"You've got your knickers in a knot over these gnomes, don't you?" he asks.

"Please, humour me," she begs. "What did the note say?"

Chewing, Joe holds the index finger of his left hand up in "just one moment" signal as he stands up and walks through the connecting door to the police station. He's back a few moments later, holding a piece of paper sealed in an evidence bag. He hands it across the table to Stirling.

She reads the letter, which appears to have been typed on a computer using a word processor program and printed using an ink jet. As she reads, she tries very hard not to burst into laughter.

**_Gnome Slave Owner,_**

**_We deplore your treatment of gentle woodland creatures, and your total disregard for the basic principles of liberty._**

**_Your moral bankruptcy is evidenced by your acts of wanton recklessness and the deliberate use of coercive force and terror tactics against gentle and innocent creatures._**

**_It was recently brought to our attention through an anonymous tip that a gnome is being held captive in your garden. We have freed said gnome plus several other woodland creatures we found on your oppressive property. We do not, as a rule, negotiate with terrorists, however, we request that you donate £20 to or face the consequences._**

**_Already your actions have prompted copycat offences, which we have witnessed, including the deplorable use of a gnome as a hood ornament._**

**_We understand that you probably were not responsible for the innocent gnome's original capture but rather purchased him from a gnome slave trafficker like a garden centre or craft show. Please understand that we are not holding you responsible for the state of gnome slavery in Britain._**

**_We are, however, asking you to put an end to your involvement._**

**_We have specially trained caseworkers who are currently working with your liberated gnome(s) with the goal of returning him/her to the northern woodlands from where he/she came._**

**_Although British law currently permits you to keep a gnome in slavery, we believe it to be morally reprehensible. We hope that upon honest reflection, you will agree._**

**_Stop oppressive gardening. Free the gnomes._**

**_Thank you,_**

**_The Garden Gnome Liberation Front_**

"This is hilarious," Stirling says, waving the letter.

Joe plucks it from her fingers.

"It isn't to the people who have lost their garden gnomes," he says.

"No, it's just an elaborate prank," she tries to explain. "I've heard of this happening before in the U.S., Italy and France."

"Why am I not surprised France is involved," Joe says snidely, pulling a face at the mention of the country.

Stirling gives him an odd look but continues.

"A group calling itself the Garden Gnome Liberation Front, or le Font pour la Liberation des Nains de Jardin, stole about 150 garden gnomes over the course of several years in the late 1990s. In the end, they were found in some nearby common or forest. Every few years, the group steals some more and pose them in ridiculous places. Some local children probably heard about the original pranks and decided to steal some gnomes as a lark."

"So you don't think this is a blackmail case?"

"No! It's a prank, a joke! I know a lot about pranks, Joe. I've planned many of them. This has all the signs of an elaborate joke. I bet in a few days or a weeks time, someone will find a large crowd of gnomes on a beach somewhere or in a forest clearing."

She thinks for a moment.

"I hope no one has sent any money to this website," she says.

"I think a few of the older ladies did," says Joe, cringing slightly.

"Well, no one else should," says Stirling. "Do you know any places around here where the young people go to hang-out, party and get rat-arsed?"

"I thought you were allergic to alcohol?"

"I am!" she says, laughing. "I don't want to go partying! What I'm suggesting is you might want to look around those areas for the missing gnomes."

"Good idea," says Joe, picking up the dirty dishes from the table.

"I'll do that," Stirling says, jumping up from her chair.

"We'll both do it," says Joe, running water into the sink.

They stand side-by-side, Stirling washing and Joe drying plus putting away the dishes. As they work, they listen to music on the small radio that sits on the windowsill. They're soon finished.

As she hangs the dish towel to dry by the sink, Joe grabs her and begins to dance around the kitchen table with her to the music, twirling her several times until she's dizzy and giddy from laughing. As the music changes to a slow song, he holds her closer. She rests her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes as they slowly dance in the kitchen.

"I really should have that shower," she says quietly as they move together.

"Shhh," he say, pulling her in closer and kissing the top of her head. "When this song's finished."

She turns her head and smiles, reaching up to kiss his lips softly. He returns the sentiment but a bit more demanding. Soon, they're no longer dancing, instead trying to devour each other with their lips. Joe pulls away first.

"I think you better have that shower right now," he says, turning off the radio and the lights before dragging her by the hand up the stairs. She laughs as he spins her through the doorway into the loo and shuts the door behind them.

* * *

It is 1 a.m. Stirling and Joe are wrapped in each others arms, asleep, when the annoying ringing sound starts. She grumbles and snuggles closer to Joe. The sound won't stop.

She sits bolt upright, gasping. It's the mobile.

She scrambles for it on the bedside table in the dark, eventually finding it.

"Hello?" she says, breathlessly.

"Mrs. Pousty? Slow down. What's wrong?"

Stirling can feel Joe shifting beside her, sitting up.

"Have you called an ambulance?"

"Okay, calm down. I'm on my way."

She ends the call and jumps out of bed, trying to remember where her clothing is. She's looking around on the floor when she hears her name. She glances up to find Joe holding out her panties.

"Thanks," she says, grabbing and stepping into them before pulling them up.

"The rest of your clothes are on the kitchen table," he reminds her as he steps out of the bed.

"You don't have to get up," she says, grabbing her mobile and heading for the door. "Stay in bed."

"I'm coming with you," he says, pulling on his boxers.

"That's not necessary, Joe," she says, walking swiftly to the stairs and trotting down the steps.

He follows closely behind her.

She sorts through the clothing piled at the end of the kitchen table, pulling on her trousers. She finds her bra on the floor and slips it on, reaching for her red blouse.

Meanwhile, Joe is scrambling into his uniform, tucking in his shirt and tightening his belt. He reaches for his duty belt hanging on a hook inside the front door.

Stirling shrugs into her black blazer and steps into her tall riding boots before grabbing her doctor's bag and heading for the door.

She stops and turns to Joe.

"You don't have to come," she says. "I'll be okay."

"I'm coming with you," he says stubbornly, opening the door for her.

Mr. and Mrs. Pousty live in a small house along Tintagel Terrace, near the top of the main hill in Portwenn.

Joe and Stirling climb the hill side by side, veering inland at the second street to the left.

The Pousty's house is number 12. Stirling knocks sharply, calling for Mrs. Pousty, who immediately opens the door wearing an exotic looking dressing gown covered in leopard spots.

"Doc Stirling, I'm so sorry for bothering you," she says, wringing her hands nervously. "I feel terrible for disturbing your evening with Sergeant Penhale. Hi Joe," she adds.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Pousty," she assures her. "Where's Mr. Pousty?"

"He's lying in bed in the main bedroom. I'll take you there."

Stirling follows her down a narrow hall to the back of the house and to the right, into the couple's bedroom. Candles have been lit all over the room and sit on dresser tops and bedside tables. Incense is also burning – sandalwood.

"Mr. Pousty, how are you felling?" Stirling asks, approaching the pale man gasping at the side of the bed. He's naked except for leopard print briefs. Stirling grabs a light sheet from the foot of the bed and covers him to his waist.

"I'm having a hard time catching my breath," he gasps. "And my left arm really hurts."

"How does your chest feel? Do you have any sharp pains?" Stirling asks, setting down her bag, opening an outside pocket, and pulling out her stethoscope.

"No, no sharp pains but I can feel pressure and my heart is pounding in my ears," he wheezes.

Stirling listens to his heart, moving the stethoscope around to several locations on his chest.

"Joe, can you help me sit him up? I need to listen from his back."

Both Joe and Mrs. Pousty help support the elderly man as Stirling listens to his heart beat from behind.

"Thanks. Just lay him down gently."

She turns to Mrs. Pousty. "Do you have any aspirin? Bring me what you have."

"Mr. Pousty, as I recall from your chart, you have a history of angina and high blood pressure. Have you taken your regular medication today? Anything different?

He shakes his head. "Just took my regular pills."

"What were you doing when the pain and shortness of breath started?"

She's met with silence.

"Mr. Pousty, I need to know what you were doing. It will help me decide how to best treat you while we wait for the ambulance.

"The wife and I were trying to have a bit of a bonk," he says eventually.

Stirling doesn't even blink.

"Did you take your nitroglycerin like you're supposed to before engaging in any sexual activity?"

"No, I was so excited, I forgot."

She fights back a smile.

"That's understandable," she says. "But it's really important that if you are going to have sexual relations, you take your nitroglycerin first."

Mrs. Pousty comes in with a bottle of aspirin.

"I also need his nitroglycerin, fast acting. What does he normally use, spray or sublingual?"

"Sub-what?" asks Mrs. Pousty.

"Sublingual – under the tongue."

"Under the tongue."

"Please bring me his pills."

"You just rest easy, we'll have you feeling better in no time."

Mrs. Pousty comes in with the nitroglycerin. Stirling pops out two pills.

"Okay Mr. Pousty, I need you to open your mouth for me. I'm going to put these pills under your tongue. You need to leave them there. Just let them dissolve. Do not swallow them or we'll have to start over again. Understand?"

The old man nods his head and opens his mouth.

Stirling deftly puts the pills where they're required and has him close his mouth.

In the distance, she hears a siren.

"I'll go direct them in," says Joe, walking out of the bedroom.

"The ambulance is almost here," she says.

Stirling turns to Mrs. Pousty and speaks quietly

"He explained to me you were trying to have sexual relations this evening when he had his attack."

Mrs. Pousty blushes.

"There's no problem with him engaging in sex but he has to take the nitroglycerin before it gets too far along. It's vitally important. If he doesn't, this is what will end up happening and next time he might not be as lucky."

Just then, Joe leads the ambulance crew into the bedroom and Stirling quietly explains to them the situation and what she treatment she has already administered.

"His name is Mr. Pousty," she adds.

"Okay Mr. Pousty," says one of the attendants, positioning the stretcher beside the bed. "We'll soon have you on your way to hospital."

They all work together to shift the large man onto the stretcher and the team strap him down and start hooking him up to a blood pressure cuff and heart monitor. He's soon pushed out the front door and into the waiting ambulance.

Mrs. Pousty has changed into more suitable attire and climbs in the ambulance next to him.

"Once again, I'm very sorry for bothering you, Doc Stirling," she calls out. 'Hopefully you and Sergeant Penhale still have some time left for romance."

Stirling and Joe stand in the middle of the deserted street and watch the ambulance race away over the hill and disappear.

Stirling glances at her watch – 2 a.m.

"Not what you had in mind for tonight, was it?" she asks, smiling.

"It was a very enjoyable evening. I was able to spend it with you."

He takes her hand and together they walk long the dark street on their way back to the police station.

They are passing a particularly dark side alley when Joe stops and leads Stirling into the shadows.

"What are you up to Sergeant Penhale?" she teases as he backs her up against the side wall of a brick duplex and starts kissing her fervently. He slowly undoes the buttons of her red blouse, baring her neck and cleavage. He kisses down her neck, moving lower down to her chest. She tilts back her head and gasps, her hands clutching at his head. She feels his mouth rising and his hands moving to the waist of her trousers. She unclips his duty belt and drops it softly to the ground before unbuckling his belt and opening his trousers.

She can feel him shaking with excitement as she dips her hands down the back of his pants, squeezing his bum. He pushes up against her body, groaning, causing Stirling to gasp in excitement.

Suddenly they hear a noise above them. They freeze as a window just above where they are standing is opened, a head poking out.

"Who's out there?" a man demands in a half whisper.

Stirling is afraid to breath.

The seconds tick by slowly, the man still above them, looking around.

A voice from inside calls to him.

"Bob, come back to bed. It was nothing."

"I don't know, Edna," the man answers. "I swear I heard something out here."

"Come back to bed, Bob, I have something special for you."

The man chuckles.

"Well, in that case ..."

The window closes above them and they hear giggling.

"That was close," whispers Stirling.

Joe returns to kissing her, exciting her.

"Maybe we should go back to your place to finish this," she whispers breathlessly, gasping at his touch.

"I'm finishing it right here," he says, his hands slowly pushing down her trousers.

* * *

The Doc is startled from his sleep by the wailing sound of an ambulance. It sounds like it's coming from the main hill in Portwenn. For some strange reason, he thinks of Mrs. Chadwick and her dire predictions for Mr. Pousty.

He's about to climb out of bed when a soft hand touches his arm.

"Don't worry, Martin, I'm sure Stirling has it under control," says Louisa sleepily. "Relax. Stay with me."

The Doc pauses for a moment before crawling back under the covers, gathering his wife's warm body into his arms.


	43. Chapter 42

Joe awakens with a start and a gasp Tuesday morning, sitting upright in bed.

He's alone.

He rubs his face with both his hands, fighting to become fully awake.

He's woken from one of his running nightmares, the kind where he races through a dense forest, branches hitting his face, roots tripping him. He's not sure where he's running or why but he can hear someone or something behind him, like they're in pursuit. He sees light ahead and runs toward it, popping out of the trees right at the edge of a cliff, a rough sea churning below. He's teetering and could go either way when he hears the someone/something run up behind him. Will it push him over or help pull him back? He always awakens before he finds out.

He's sitting on the side of his bed, trying to banish the dream from his mind, when he remembers something – where's Stirling?

She had been lying beside him when they went to bed for the second time earlier that morning. Now, she is gone.

He quickly dresses in clean boxers and a T-shirt before walking out into the hall. No sound comes from the loo, although it's obvious from the smell of shampoo and soap that someone has showered recently.

He quietly pads down the stairs and finds Stirling sitting at the kitchen table, her back to him. She is fully dressed in her clothing from yesterday, her leather jacket lying over the back of the chair she's sitting on. She's writing. At least, he thinks she's writing. He's never seen anyone write as rapidly as she currently is.

Paperwork is the bane of Joe's existence, a chore he dreads and tries to avoid at all costs. And he uses an ancient computer and printer to fill in most of the forms and reports he's required to file. In Stirling's case, she appears to be using a biro.

He watches quietly as she writes line after line of notes into a patient file, closes it, places it on top of a pile beside her doctor's bag before reaching for the next file, stacked beside her left elbow. It's like watching an assembly line worker. Open file, write notes, close file, put on pile, grab next file. She never pauses or hesitates, unlike Joe who frequently needs to stop and search his mind for the right word to use.

He finds watching her fascinating.

Stirling stops and Joe wonders if she's finally stumped for something to write. Instead, she turns to look behind her, sees him, and screams.

Joe is embarrassed to admit it later, but he screams too, startled by her reaction.

She screams back.

"Bloody hell, Stirling!" he shouts, sitting with a thump on the stairs, scared half out of his mind.

She is still gasping for breath, obviously terrified herself. Her hand scrambles for her doctor's bag, ripping open an end pocket and pulling out an inhaler. She sucks back a blast and holds her breath, eventually exhaling out her nose. The gasping stops.

"I think I just peed my trousers," she says.

"You're joking!" Joe says in a shocked voice.

"Of course I am," she snaps back.

She slowly inhales and exhales through her nose until her heart stops pounding in her ears.

"Why were you sneaking up behind me?" she demands.

Joe searches for a reason and can't think of one.

"I didn't mean to," he says. "I came down the stairs, saw you sitting there and stopped to watch you. Next thing I know, you're screaming at me."

Stirling stares at him for a moment and starts to laugh.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I'm not used to your place and I guess I'm a bit jumpy."

Joe thumps the rest of the way down the stairs and walks over to her chair.

"Let's start this again," he says, leaning down and kissing her. "Good morning."

"Good morning," she answers with a smile.

"Did you sleep well?" he asks, settling into a chair beside her at the table.

"Like the dead."

"You weren't missing your luxurious bed?"

"A little bit," she admits. "But I rather enjoyed the company last night. How did you sleep?"

"A nightmare this morning," he admits. "I think it's because you left me up there alone."

She laughs.

"You mean it's not enough that I'm in the same house with you?"

"No, you have to be in bed next to me," he says. "Otherwise, my sleep is ruined."

"I'm sorry," she says, leaning over and kissing him softly. "I'll try to remember that in future. It's just I have to finish these patient charts before I leave for the surgery this morning."

She glances at her watch.

"Which will be fairly soon, I'm afraid."

"You must have time for some breakfast," Joe says, rising and walking to the refrigerator.

"Not really," she says, starting to write in her next patient chart. She never pauses, just writes her notes quickly, closes the file, puts it on the pile and starts again with the next one.

Joe stares.

She looks up.

"What?" she asks, baffled.

"How do you do that?" he asks, gesturing to the chart she's about to write in.

"Do what?"

"Write like that."

"Like what?"

"You never stop, you never pause, you never have to wrack your brain to remember what happened next. You just write like a machine and move to the next one. It's almost robotic."

Stirling blushes, looking down at the chart in front of her.

"I don't notice," she says quietly. "I usually try to act a little more normal when I have an audience. I didn't realize you were watching me."

"I don't understand."

"In my mind, I've already written the patient notes for these charts," she tries to explain. "I did them yesterday, at the end of each home visit. Then I filed them away in my head until it was time to write them out. Then, it's like a memory dump. Information in, information out, write into patient file. Typically, I'm by myself when I do charts so I don't think about how it must look. Sometimes, like when the Chief is still at the surgery, I'll try to work a bit slower, pause once or twice per chart, act like my pen isn't working properly, scribble on a blank piece of paper."

Joe stares at her for a moment, thinking.

"So what happens after you write the details into the chart? Do you just forget the information?"

"It depends," Stirling says. "If it's a regular patient I see every few weeks, every month, I retain all of it, details from every visit. If it's a one-off, someone I just see once, twice a year, it fades quicker. But as soon as I read their chart, it usually all comes back."

"What about books, magazine and newspaper articles, conversations you have; can you recall them as easily?"

Stirling smiles slightly.

"Same answer – it depends. It depends on how important it is I remember the information from the article or the conversation. I can retain textbook information if it's a subject I'm interested in. Otherwise, I can recall it for maybe a week, a month. As for conversations, I can remember the last one I had with my mother and father, what they were wearing when they walked out the door the last time I saw them alive, every word that was spoken between my co-workers and I while we were kept in quarantine, every line of testimony from Spencer's trial. I can also recite the first conversation you and I ever had plus every one we've had since then, recall what you were wearing the night you walked into that Bristol Bobby bar, what you ordered, what it said on the pint glass you were drinking from and the beer mat you set it on."

Joe walks over to her chair, gently pulls her to her feet and hugs her close.

"What's this for?" she asks, with a bewildered laugh.

He pulls back from the embrace to look her in the eyes.

"That is both the saddest and the most beautiful thing I've ever heard," he says. He kisses her on the forehead. "To have all that up there in your brain spinning around, it must be a gift and a curse."

"I try to concentrate on the good things," she says, looking up at him. "Like you."

She kisses him softly and sighs.

"I really have to go," she says, gathering up the piles of patient files and stowing them in the large outside pocket of her doctor's bag. "Will I see you tonight?"

Joe goes over the day's schedule in his mind as she pulls on her leather jacket.

"Probably not until later."

"Oh yes, Tuesday – pub quiz night," she says, smiling.

"Do you want to have dinner out before?"

"That would be brilliant. Six o'clock at Large's?"

"I'll meet you there."

She grabs her doctor's bag and gives him another kiss.

As she walks to the door, Joe calls her name. She turns and he kisses her. She laughs, managing to back a few steps closer to the door before he kisses her again. This one lasts longer.

"You're making this difficult for me," she whispers.

"Good. My plan is working."

She laughs and kisses him again.

"I have to go home and get changed, prepare for another day of house calls, receive the lecture I'm pretty sure is forthcoming from the Chief.

Joe kisses her softly twice.

"What does the Doc have to lecture you about?"

"Probably you!" she says, kissing him. "And when is it an appropriate time, if ever, to show public displays of affection."

Stirling has managed to back her way to the exit but now she's trapped between it and Joe, who leans against the door, placing his hands on either side of her body. He kisses her.

"Do you think now would be considered a good time for displaying affection?" he asks, kissing down her neck. She can feel his hands push both her leather jacket and blazer off her shoulders, pulling them by the sleeves down her back and onto the floor.

"Sergeant," she manages to say between kisses. "I really need to go! I'm going to be late!"

"Just blame it on me," he whispers, unbuttoning the front of her shirt.

"Oh, I will," she says, dropping her bag to the floor and yanking off his T-shirt.

* * *

It's 8:15 a.m. as Stirling parks the Triumph in front of the surgery. She runs through the door, trying to unbuckle her helmet at the same time.

Morwenna looks up in surprise as the young doctor rushes into the waiting room, dropping the finished patient files onto the receptionist's desk. She grabs the fresh pile waiting for her and turns to run up the stairs. She's relieved to see the consulting room door is closed.

"Good morning, Doc Stirling," Morwenna says with a smile. "Sleep well? Have a nice breakfast?"

Stirling ignores her, racing up the stairs as quickly as she can and running into her bedroom. After 10 minutes of frenzied stripping, washing, brushing and dressing, she is back downstairs, racing into the kitchen. She grabs a few bottles of water from the refrigerator and an energy bar from the cupboard. She pauses to eye the HobNobs and grabs them too.

She runs through the piano room, deftly dodging the piano bench, and back out the front door. As it's closing, she hears the unmistakable voice she's been trying to avoid.

"Dr. Aylesworth!"

She pauses, her arms full of doctor's bag, patient files, several bottles of water, a package of HobNobs, her motorcycle helmet and an energy bar.

She turns slowly and watches as the Doc comes out the surgery's front door. As usual, he's not smiling.

"Good morning, Chief," she says pleasantly. "Just gathering up my supplies for the day."

She turns to the Triumph and begins shoving the water and snacks into the saddlebags.

"I didn't see you after your home visits yesterday," he says.

Stirling closes her eyes and swears silently, her back to him.

"No, I stopped at the police station on my way into town," she says, shoving the patient files into the pocket of her doctor's bag and clipping it onto the Triumph.

"I heard," he says. "I need to speak with you."

_Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!_ she thinks, unclipping her bag and following his tall, erect frame back into the building. He leads the way through the waiting room, pausing at the consulting room door.

"Morwenna, if and when my next patient arrives, inform him or her that I will see them when I have finished speaking with Dr. Aylesworth."

Stirling enters the room and sits in a patient chair, bracing herself for the worst.

The Doc closes the door and sits down in his chair.

"How did yesterday's visits go?" he asks.

His expression is unreadable.

"They went fairly well," says Stirling. "The swelling in Mrs. Oaksly's knee has gone down significantly in comparison to your description in her file. I told her she should probably try to exercise it a bit now, see if it can take some weight. She's using a cane now rather than crutches. Mr. Henson – "

"No, that's okay. I can read their patient files later. I was wondering whether you had any problems, any pain in your fingers, fatigue, dizziness."

Stirling stares at him, shocked.

_Isn't he going to yell at me?_ she wonders. _Call me an idiot for becoming involved with Sergeant Penhale? Rant about what happened in front of the surgery yesterday morning?_

"No, I was fine. No problems."

"Good, I'm glad to hear it. The Chief of Staff at Truro will also be glad. He wants me to be available to do surgeries four days a week, starting next Monday. This means I will only be able to see patients in the surgery one day per week, most likely Friday. And, in light of my extended time away from home during the week, I will be unable to alternate Saturday morning surgery times with you. Obviously, in light of your increased involvement staffing and managing the surgery, we will have to renegotiate your salary. I was hoping to meet with you this evening to discuss this."

Stirling is gobsmacked. This is not what she was expecting.

"Yes – uhmmm – Joe and I are planning to have dinner out at six but I can come by later. How does seven sound?"

"Good."

Stirling stands up, ready to go.

"One other thing," the Doc says.

Her heart sinks.

"Louisa wants to know whether you still plan on driving with us to Exeter tomorrow night for Penhale's award ceremony. In light of recent developments, she is unsure whether you now plan to make the trip with him."

Stirling stares at the Doc, blinking several times.

_Has he hit his head?_ she wonders. _Had a stroke?_

"Joe and I will discuss it tonight at dinner and I will let you know."

"Good," he says. "That is all."

Stirling turns to exit the door but stops and turns back.

"Chief?"

"Yes?"

"How are you feeling this morning? Does your head hurt at all? Do you feel any pain behind your eyes? Maybe at the back of your head, down by the base of your skull?"

He stares at her expressionless for several very long seconds.

"What on Earth are you babbling about? I feel perfectly fine. Get out; you're already late for your first visit!"

"On my way," she says, smiling with relief as she walks rapidly out of the consulting room.

"Sometimes she acts just like an idiot," the Doc mutters.

* * *

At six o'clock sharp, Stirling descends the stairs down to Large's Restaurant, a narrow outdoor eatery located atop one of the break walls above Portwenn's harbour. A scattering of couples and family groups occupy the 10 or so tables.

"Doc," says Bert, approaching from the kitchen area. "Would you like a table for just yourself?"

"No," she says. "I'm here to meet Sergeant Penhale for dinner."

She looks around quickly but doesn't see him

"Certainly," says Bert, leading her to a more private table for two, away from the other diners and along the edge of the break wall.

"This is fine," Stirling says, taking a chair facing the entrance. "I'd love a glass of ice water when you have a moment."

She opens the menu and peruses the specials of the day. She decides on the fish and sets the booklet aside, gazing out at the water and the old walls that protect the harbour from the rough waves of the sea. The tide is currently coming in and she glances over to the car park to see if any hapless visitor has left their vehicle in harms way. Luckily, the area is empty.

For the next 15 minutes, she sips her water and waits.

She's about to give up and order for just herself when she hears it, far in the distance. A siren. And it's getting closer. As the sound becomes louder, diners look up from their meals, craning their necks to see what could be happening up on street level.

Stirling watches in amusement as the Land Rover races up the hill past the restaurant entrance, siren wailing and lights flashing, and pulls into a parking space at the surgery. Silence. A few minutes later, Joe comes racing down the stairs and over to the table, collapsing into the chair across from her.

"I'm sorry I'm late," he pants, trying to catch his breath. "I was called out of town."

"It happens," says Stirling, picking up her mobile and waving it in front of him. "Of course, a phone call or message explaining that would have been nice. But I can't be too upset; I see you pulled out the big artillery to get here as quickly as possible."

She leans forward across the table toward him. He leans in toward her.

"I love the siren and flash lights," she whispers, giving him a big wink. "It turns me on."

Joe leans back in his chair and grins.

"Maybe we should go for a drive later, way out on the moor, and I can show you how loud the siren can get."

"Sounds interesting," Stirling says laughing.

Joe picks up the menu by his place setting and begins to read through it.

"Have you ordered yet?" he asks.

"No, I was waiting for you. But I know what I want."

"Michael said that about you," Joe says, flipping to the next page.

"Pardon?"

"Michael, he told me once that you know what you want."

Stirling smirks before taking a sip of her water.

"I'm sure Michael told you all kinds of crazy things about me, about half to two-thirds of which are not true."

Joe pauses for a moment, appearing to be thinking.

"No, he didn't tell me too much about you."

They place their food orders with Bert, who pours a glass of water for Joe and refills Stirling's glass.

"What called you out of town?" she asks when they are alone again.

He looks up and grins.

"You were right!"

"Of course I was," she says cockily, before leaning forward and whispering: "What was I right about?"

"I found the gnomes."

"Aces!" she shouts, causing several people in the restaurant to startle and then glare at her. "Where were they?"

"Exactly where you suggested I look. I went to this spot the young ones like to go at night where they have bonfires, drink too much and generally get up to no good. I poked around a little bit and I found the little plaster blighters, tucked away in a cave halfway up the cliff face, well protected from the tide."

"That's fantastic," Stirling says. "So, have you reunited them with their evil slave masters?"

Joe gives her a disapproving look, which just makes her laugh.

"I've been considering putting the area under surveillance to see who shows up," he says.

"Joe, it's just a bunch of teenagers thinking they're funny. Return the gnomes and move on."

"You know, it starts with garden gnomes, and then they move on to garden tools, lawnmowers, motorcycles, vehicles and creeping into houses," he says. "It's a slippery slope from pilfering gnomes to robbing banks."

Stirling stares at him, struggling very hard not to laugh. She leans forward and clasps both his hands in hers.

"I love you very much but sometimes you push the whole "following the letter of the law" aspect of your job to the extreme," she says softly. "You were young once. Didn't you ever do something stupid that could have landed you in a heap of trouble if you were caught?"

"Never!" Joe says forcefully.

Stirling gives him a look of disbelief.

"Well I have. I can think of at least three instances where, if I had been caught, I would have received an ASBO, no questions asked."

Joe looks horrified.

"Oh please!" she says, laughing. "I can just imagine you and big brother Sam getting into heaps of trouble roaming the back streets of Truro. You play all righteous and noble now but when you were a teenager, I bet you were a bloody hellion."

"I do not have to say anything," says Joe, paraphrasing the beginning of the privilege against self-incrimination warning.

"Ha! I knew it!" Stirling crows triumphantly.

Their food arrives and they both tuck into their meals.

She glances quickly at her watch – 6:35 p.m. She has a bit of time left.

"I'm meeting with the Chief after dinner," she says. "And he wants me to clear something up with you."

Joe looks up from his pasta, curious.

"Did you want me to travel with you tomorrow to Exeter or should I accept a ride from the Chief and Louisa?"

He thinks for a moment.

"I don't think you're going to be finished surgery hours at the time I'm expected to leave. They want me there early for some reason. Maybe you could travel there with the Doc and Louisa and come home with me."

"That will work."

"Why are you meeting with the Doc?"

"We're renegotiating my terms of employment," Stirling says nonchalantly.

Joe looks up sharply.

"You're what?"

"Renegotiating my contract. The Doc has been asked to offer one more day a week of surgical time at the hospital and he has agreed. This means I will be taking over one additional day at the surgery plus working a half-day every weekend. Therefore, my contract needs to be altered and my salary renegotiated to reflect the change in responsibility."

Joe's silent for a few moments.

"Congratulations," he says.

Now it's Stirling's turn to look up sharply.

"You don't sound very happy about it," she says.

Joe picks at a small fork-full of spaghetti on his plate.

"With you having more work to do at the surgery, I'm just concerned we won't have much time to spend together," he says. "We finally progress to a more serious level of relationship and already I might be losing you."

She shifts her chair so she is seated closer to Joe.

"I'm not going anywhere," she says, touching his hand. "You're not going to lose me. We'll still have Sundays and weekday evenings together. You work all-day on Saturdays anyway."

She leans over and kisses Joe softly on the cheek.

"I'm not interested in losing you either," she adds.

After their meal, they share a brownie and ice cream for afters.

It's almost seven o'clock as the walk together up the stairs to street level.

"I'll see you later at the surgery?" Stirling asks.

"Definitely. I hope your meeting goes well."

She smiles and looks at Joe for a moment.

"I'm very curious about your pub quiz night. I think I'd like to come and watch one night or maybe even play."

"No!" he answers adamantly. "This is men's team night only. The women compete on a different night."

"You separate the sexes for pub quiz night?" she asks, shocked.

"It's an old tradition and we like it that way."

"I'm sure you do! Sounds archaic!"

Joe leans forward and kisses her.

"I'll see you later," he says.

"Later."


	44. Chapter 43

Stirling looks at her watch and then back at the landscape rushing by outside the Lexus.

_Still lots of time before the ceremony starts_, she thinks to herself, twisting her mother's wedding ring around and around her right ring finger. Tonight is the first evening she has been able to wear it since Spencer's attack. The swelling in the knuckles of her right hand has finally diminished enough that she is able to slide the ring on. Whether it will come off again still remains to be seen.

She's nervous. She's not entirely sure why – she certainly isn't receiving a bravery medal and sergeant bars. But still her stomach is clenched with anxiety. She recalls Joe's apprehension at the Policemen's Ball and knows he doesn't handle group events involving his peers very well.

Stirling glances at her watch again.

"We'll get there in time," says the Doc, glancing back at her via the rear view mirror.

"I know," she says, smiling nervously.

It's just the three of them in the car – the Doc, Louisa and Stirling. James Henry is home with a sitter for the evening, providing his parents a brief reprieve.

"Is Joe the only constable being recognized tonight?" Louisa asks.

"No, there are several other officers receiving awards and promotions this evening," Stirling explains. "They are also inducting some new constables. Most forces only hold these awards evenings once or twice a year, depending on the number of officers employed."

She smooths out the skirt of her dress, covering the flash of red crinoline peeking out from underneath with the black material. Beside her on the seat sits a wide brimmed black summer hat with a red ribbon accent, which matches the dress perfectly. She checks her tiny pouch bag for the 11th time, ensuring her digital camera is there.

As they pull into Exeter, Stirling becomes even more nervous. She's almost nauseous by the time they reach the Devon and Cornwall Police headquarters and park in the large visitor area.

Due to the nice summer weather and extended daylight hours, the ceremony is being held outside in a green area located adjacent to the main building. A small portable stage has been erected and numerous white folding chairs have been set up in front of it. A marquee has also been set up housing a bar area and entrees.

The Doc takes Louisa's hand in his own as they walk behind the large complex of building toward the ceremony site. Stirling follows close behind, smiling under her hat brim at the Chief's very sweet public display of affection for his wife. The gesture speaks volumes about the pair and seems so intimate, she feels like a bit of a voyeur for noticing and watching.

As they get closer, she notices Al and Morwenna standing to one side, each sipping from a glass of wine. Morwenna spots them and waves enthusiastically.

"Good god," the Doc mutters, recognizing some other people from the village.

"Behave," Louisa says with a smile, greeting them by name as she joins the small group.

"Dr. Aylesworth! Stirling!"

She turns to find Sergeant David and Briar Thomas standing behind her.

"David! Briar! Fancy meeting you two here," she says, laughing and giving each of them a hug and a kiss.

"You look gorgeous," says Briar.

"Thank you. How are your girls?"

"We finally found them a wonderful boarding school in Norfolk. They start in the fall term."

Stirling nods her head, thinking of little Emily being shipped off to the other side of the country with just her older sister for company. She had been 13 when she left for Wycombe Abbey and that had been traumatic enough. Imagine being nine or 10? She represses a shudder of sympathy.

"I just have to say you look incredible compared to the last time I saw you," says David, he face serious. "We weren't sure whether you were going to make it."

Stirling looks surprised.

"I didn't realize you came to visit me in the hospital," she says.

"Daddy was so upset when he heard what had happened to you and PC Penhale, he and mum plus David and I visited when you were both were still in Urgent Care," explains Briar, looking around the area.

"Daddy should be here somewhere."

It's then Stirling sees Assistant Chief Inspector Eric Barnett and his wife, Mel, chatting with some dignitaries near the stage.

"I'll have to speak with him later," she says. "I should try to join with my party. It was a pleasure seeing you both again and please say hello to Emily for me."

She searches the growing crowd for the Doc and Louisa and eventually finds the couple plus Morwenna and Al assessing the seating choices.

"Stirling, there you are," says Louisa. "Where would you like to sit?"

"I think I should be near the front to get the best photos," she says. "But I know how the Chief is. If you wish to sit near the back, I understand."

"No, we're sitting with you."

Louisa walks toward the stage, finding a group of empty seats in the third row from the front. Despite the Doc's flinch of horror at being so visible to everyone, she drags him into the row, followed by Morwenna and Al, allowing Stirling to sit at the end so she can move around to take photos.

She glances at her watch.

_It's almost time_, she thinks. _I hope he's okay_.

* * *

Joe's standing in his dress uniform with a large group of Devon and Cornwall Police constables in a staging area set up just inside the main building.

He's incredibly nervous, his stomach cramping with anxiety.

Periodically, he glances out a large window, tinted on the outside, to see if he recognizes anyone arriving. He smiles and relaxes slightly when he notices Stirling walking by with the Doc and Louisa. As usual, she looks stunning.

On top of a selection of officers receiving awards and promotions, the evening's event includes a selection of new graduates who are being officially sworn in. The young rookies mill about in excitement, assessing every woman who walks by outside, including Stirling.

"Look at that one," a young blonde-haired constable comments to his buddy, pointing her out. "That is one scrummy woman."

"She is fit!" his dark-haired buddy answers, his eyes widening as he watches her walk by, totally unaware of their leering. "I am going to talk to that hot totty tonight. Watch me and learn."

Joe feels a flare of annoyance listening to them that eventually turns to amusement.

_Watch me and learn indeed_, he thinks, recalling Sam's weeks-long patient pursuit of Stirling that ultimately ended in dismal failure.

_If she can politely rebuff my brother's persistent flirting, she can handle these two cocky idiots with ease_, he thinks.

A harried looking woman enters the staging area and begins ordering around the assembled constables via a megaphone. She soon has the young recruits in order followed by years of service recognition, retirees, promotion and special awards. Joe finds himself toward the back of the line, a spot he definitely prefers to be in. He straightens his dress tunic, checking his collar and tie while bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet.

"Bit anxious, eh mate?" says the sergeant behind him.

"A little," he admits.

"I know the feeling. I almost wish they'd throw the rank insignia in the post and be done with it."

Joe turns to the fellow officer, who is almost as tall as the Doc but with much broader shoulders. He looks like if he flexed his muscles, he'd rip right out of his dress uniform.

"Going up to Inspector, eh?" asks Joe.

The man nods, holding out a huge hand.

"Inspector Mike Dobbins, Penzance," he says.

"Sergeant Joe Penhale, Portwenn," Joe says, shaking the Inspector's gigantic paw, hoping his hand isn't crushed.

"I've heard of you," Mike says.

With those words, Joe's stomach feels like it falls about 10 feet.

_What horrible, embarrassing story has this guy heard?_ he thinks to himself, imagining the worst. _The time I set off the pepper spray in the men's loo at the Bude station? The very expensive asbestos/cellulose insulation panic I caused in Portwenn? The time I drove one of the Bude station's Ford Focus patrol cars off a bridge into the canal?_

"You're the constable that saved the doctor from her nutter boyfriend, the who escaped from Broadmoor. I heard he was totally hatstand. You spent some time in hospital, didn't you?"

Joe is shocked.

"Uhmmm, uhhh" he stutters. "We both did."

Mike gives him a puzzled look.

"We?"

"The doctor and I; we both spent time in hospital," he explains. "I wouldn't really describe it as me saving her."

"That's not what I heard, mate."

Suddenly, the line of officers in front of Joe starts moving forward, marching in time. He scrambles to find the rhythm as he joins them, exiting the main building into the evening light.

As he files past the assembled crowd, who are on their feet, he looks for Stirling, eventually finding her on the far end of one of the rows close to the front. She smiles at him and takes a photo with her camera.

He manages to keep himself from grinning back at her.

He notices that Louisa, the Doc, Al and Morwenna are also in that row.

The officers slowly file, in order, into rows of chairs set up beside the stage. Because of his location in the line, Joe finds himself situated in one of the rows farthest from the stage. He's surprised to find sitting in front of him the two rookie constables who had been admiring Stirling earlier.

"There she is!" the blonde says to his buddy, elbowing him in the ribs and pointing into the audience.

"I'd love to get a leg over her."

Joe fights the urge to move Blondie's chair as they are given the command to be seated.

As the master of ceremonies for the event drones on, Joe finds his eyes drawn repeatedly to Stirling, who openly stares back at him, eventually sticking her tongue out at him.

He smiles.

"Did you see that?" Blondie whisper loudly to the constable beside him. "She just stuck her tongue out at us!"

"What!" hisses his friend, looking over at her.

Joe decides to have some fun. He sticks his tongue out at Stirling, causing her to laugh and make a funny face back.

"Bloody hell!" the dark-haired bloke in front of him mutters.

Joe waves; Stirling waves back.

Several other rookies seated in the row in front of him begin to notice her. A few wave at her. She either ignores them or just doesn't notice, her eyes on Joe.

He decides to up the ante and blows her a kiss. She gives him a strange look, obviously not expecting him to make that kind of sentimental gesture. Shrugging, she laughs and blows a kiss back.

About five constables seated in front of him mutter in excitement. One actually pretends to catch her blown kiss from the air and put it in his pocket. They all begin blowing kisses back to Stirling, causing such a stir of activity in the row, she finally notices them. She looks puzzled as they wave at her, blows kisses, make funny faces or stick their tongues out. She whispers something to Morwenna, who glances over and starts laughing.

They aren't the only two people to notice. Several people in the audience are staring and chuckling at the rookies' antics. A few high ranking officers seated on the stage are also watching, frowning with disapproval. Eventually, one clears his throat loudly, causing the young men to look his way. All activity ceases in the row.

Joe is laughing silently in his chair, feeling right chuffed with his revenge. He glances over at Stirling, who frowns at him in the beginning but eventually smiles and laughs, shaking her head.

"Well played, Sergeant," whispers Mike, who is seated to his right. "Very well played."

Joe glances over at him.

"Is that your wife?" Mike asks, nodding with his head toward Stirling.

"My girlfriend."

"I'd keep her close to me tonight. Those clueless idiots haven't been the only ones admiring her."

"I'm not worried," Joe says, smiling. "When it comes to unwelcome advances. she can take care of herself."

Mike looks at Stirling.

"I'm sure she can. Been together long?"

"No, a few months. But I've known her for about a year. She works in Portwenn."

"What does she do?"

"She's a doctor, a GP."

Mike looks at Joe, then Stirling, and back at Joe.

"She is the one," the officer from Penzance says, realizing the connection.

"Definitely," says Joe, smiling as he watches her.

* * *

The rest of the event rushes by quickly. When Joe is called forward, Stirling walks up in front of the stage to take pictures of him receiving his medal and sergeant bars. He handles the ceremonial part smoothly; no tripping, no falling, no embarrassing mess ups, no nervous stuttering. She's proud of him.

Later, when all the pomp is over, he walks over to her and the rest of the Portwenn group, receiving congratulations and handshakes all around, even from the Doc. Joe grabs Stirling's hand and gives her a quick kiss.

"That was very cruel what you did to those rookie constables," she whispers in his ear. "And I didn't appreciate being used for your prank."

He smiles at her, knowing she really isn't angry with him.

"Later, remind me to tell you why I did it," he says.

She gives him a strange look.

"Okay."

"I want you to meet someone," he says, leading her over to a small group of constables talking and holding pint glasses.

"Stirling, this is Inspector Mike Dobbins from the Penzance detachment. Mike, this is Dr. Stirling Aylesworth, the main GP in Portwenn."

A giant man, almost as tall as the Doc but more muscular, shakes her hand.

"A pleasure to met you, Doctor."

"You can call me Stirling," she says, smiling, searching her mind. "You didn't attend this past spring's Policemen's Ball."

"No, I was away on a training course attached to earning this promotion," he admits, giving her a curious look.

She smiles innocently.

"Stirling, Sergeant Joe Penhale, these two pillocks are Sergeant David Amberson and Constable Charlie Pittock, also from Penzance."

Hands are shook all around.

"Would you like a drink?" Joe asks her, nodding toward the marquee.

"Yes please. The usual."

He smiles.

"I know."

He joins the line waiting by the bar.

"A doctor," says Mike. "In Portwenn. Did you grow up in the area?"

"No, I'm originally from Yorkshire, grew up on the moors. Are you from Cornwall?"

"Born and bred," he says proudly. "I grew up the son of a fisherman in Newlyn, just next door to Penzance. It's the largest fishing port in England."

"I've never been that far west in Cornwall. What's it like?"

"Rugged, beautiful and wild. Land's End is breathtaking and the Lizard Peninsula defies description; it's so isolated and untouched."

"It sounds stunning! If I ever get holidays, I'll have to go west. I've always wanted to visit Penzance, which actually has a famous connection to Yorkshire. It's the birthplace of Maria Branwell, the mother of the Bronte sisters and also the namesake of their brother, Branwell Bronte."

"Well, if you ever get down there, knock me up. I'd be pleased to show you around."

"Show you around what?" asks Joe, handing Stirling her glass of ice water.

"The Inspector was just telling me about Penzance and I was saying how I would love to visit, if I ever get holidays. And he was offering to be a tour guide."

"Was he now?"

Mike grins at Joe, holding up his left hand and pointing to his ring finger.

"Calm down, Sergeant," he says, laughing. "I'm married."

"Is your wife with you?" Stirling asks.

"She had to stay home with the kiddies," Mike explains. "It's a long trip to make with little ones. As I was explaining to Joe earlier, I wish they just posted the rank insignia."

At that moment, the Doc and Louisa walk up.

"We need to start heading back," Louisa explains. "Are you okay to get a ride home with Joe?"

"I'll get her home safely," Joe says.

The Doc just grunts.

"Once again, congratulations Sergeant," Louisa says, giving him a quick hug and kiss on the cheek. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," says Stirling, watching the pair walk away, hand in hand.

Morwenna and Al come up a few minutes later and also say goodbye.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Stirling says, waving to Morwenna.

"Bright and early," the receptionist answers, giving her a wink.

Joe and Stirling stay a little longer, chatting with Mike, Sergeant Thomas and Briar, and even Assistant Chief Inspector Barnett and Mel.

The sun has set and it's almost night when Joe glances at his watch.

"We should head home," he suggests.

They say goodnight to their companions and walk to the Land Rover, which is parked in the police headquarters' employee car park. Joe helps Stirling in the passenger side and then circles around to the driver's side. After he closes his door, the pair look at each other in the dim light.

"Well Sergeant. I'm very proud of you."

"Really?"

"Yes, I think you handled that event very well for someone who informed me just a few months back he wasn't very good at meeting people or making friends; that he rubbed people the wrong way and was annoying."

Joe considers her comment for a moment.

"You know, when I'm around you, I'm more relaxed. I don't feel like I always have to prove something."

"Good," she says, smiling.

She slides across the seat until she's beside him, reaching out to touch the medal pinned on the left side of his dress tunic.

"Courage in the face of personal peril," she says. "That sounds very brave."

She notices the other medal on his dress tunic.

"What's this one for?"

Joe clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably.

"Nothing important.

Stirling laughs.

"From what little I've observed involving the Devon and Cornwall Police force to date, they don't just hand out medals for nothing important. What's it for?"

"I was injured in the line of duty."

"When?" she asks, surprised.

"Several years back; before I came to Portwenn."

"What happened?"

Joe sighs, knowing there's no way in hell Stirling will stop the questioning until she knows the answer.

"I was kicked in the head by a horse."

Silence.

"You were kicked in the head by a horse? Were you badly hurt?"

"I was knocked unconscious and when I came to, I was covered in blood. It took a dozen or so stitches to close up my scalp."

He leans his head forward and points to his hair.

"I have a nasty scar."

"What were you doing that resulted in you being kicked in the head by a horse?"

"I was pursuing a farmer who was resisting arrest. I lost my footing and fell under his horse."

Stirling is confused.

"Was the farmer trying to escape on the horse?"

"No! The horse was just tied up in the farm yard. I fell as I was running past it and it kicked me."

"Why were you trying to arrest the farmer?"

"I was accompanying an enforcement manager and officer who were trying to deliver a search warrant as part of a Television License investigation. The farmer made a runner."

"Wait a moment. Let me get this straight. You got kicked in the head by a horse, knocked unconscious and received more than a dozen stitches to your head over a £145.50 television license?"

"Uhhhmm, errrr, ye – yes."

"That's the craziest thing I've ever heard. It probably cost the health care system more to treat you than the licensing fee was worth, not to mention the expense to the legal system of prosecuting the farmer."

Joe's not sure what to say.

"Well, if you watch live television programming, you have to pay the television license. That's the law. You can't have some people not paying the fee but still watching the telly."

Stirling smiles.

"A medal for being kicked in the head by a horse while trying to serve a search warrant over a television license," she says, reaching out and gently touching his cheek. "I love you."

She leans forward and kisses him intensely, her arms reaching around to grip his neck and shoulders. He kisses her back just as excitedly, eventually pulling back to pet her face.

"I love you, too," he says softly.

"We need to start heading home. It's getting late."

Stirling clips her belt across her waist and snuggles close to Joe as he starts the Land Rover and drives out of the car park. She leans against his left shoulder as he puts his arm around her.

They're travelling west on the A30 when Joe hears Stirling laugh softly.

"What's so funny?"

"Now I understand your strong reaction to Bucephalus that day in Portwenn," she says. "You were terrified when you saw him because you thought he was a pony. You even mentioned you weren't very keen about horses. Now I understand why."

"They terrify me," he admits.

"I might have to help you with that phobia."

Joe doesn't like the sound of that.


	45. Chapter 44

Stirling lies back against the pillows with an audible hum of satisfaction. Her heart is still pounding in her ears, her breath coming in controlled gasps but she feels incredibly relaxed, at peace, satisfied. She closes her eyes and pushes her head deeper into the soft nest of down behind her.

As Joe wraps his arms around her torso, she shifts her body and arms to provide room for his head on her upper chest. He lies with his body tight against hers, skin on skin, heat pressing against heat. She can feel his quick puffs of breath drying the sweat glistening on her breasts.

"Your heart is racing," he says, shifting his ear slightly to find a better position.

"Just a bit excited," Stirling answers, brushing her fingers through his damp hair.

"I noticed."

Stirling stretches her body on the bed and yawns, still humming contentedly.

"They should bottle you up and sell you as a relaxant," she says. "Or an antidepressant."

She thinks for a moment

"Maybe not; I'm not very good at sharing."

Joe lifts his head and kisses her tenderly, pushing a few damp tendrils of hair back from her face. He sighs in contentment as he returns to his previous resting place, pulling her body even closer to his.

Stirling is happy: ecstatically, unbelievably, indescribably happy. Despite the change in the Doc's work schedule, they've had two wonderful, exciting weeks of intense intimacy, alternating between her place and Joe's, depending on their work schedules. She feels like she's 18 again.

Unfortunately, she and Joe have also been acting like they're 18 again, leading to what the medical professional side of her brain considers risky behaviours.

As a doctor, she has a duty and a responsibility to talk about their behaviour with Joe.

As a woman, she would be a fool not to.

Still, she's nervous, hesitant to ruin the mood, destroy the moment.

_Get a grip on yourself,_ she thinks. _You're not some shy, naïve teenager._

"Joe," she says with a nervous throat clearing.

"Uh hmm," he answers sleepily, absently tickling his fingers up and down her left side.

"We need to discuss something. The past two weeks have been wonderful, fantastic really."

Joe lifts his head and looks up at her, his brow slightly furrowed. He sits up fully, settling cross-legged beside her on the bed, a sheet wrapped around his waist.

"But …" he says. "A lead up like that always has a but at the end."

"It's nothing serious," Stirling says, sitting up across from Joe, wrapping the counterpane around her like a towel.

_Yes it is,_ she thinks. _I've been acting like an irresponsible, scatter-brained teenage girl._

She leans in and kisses Joe softly, tenderly cupping his right cheek.

"It's just we've spent every night together for the past two weeks. Long, blissful nights together."

Joe smiles at the memories. He wants to kiss her, hold her tight, excite her again but he knows she has something she needs to say; something she needs to explain.

Stirling takes a deep breath and decides to just be direct.

"We've been shagging like two love struck teenagers being ruled by their hormones. We've been going at it like rabbits," she says in a rush.

"Hasn't it been fantastic," says Joe wistfully.

"Well, yes it has," Stirling admits. "But we're being irresponsible. I would be remiss if, as a doctor, I didn't point out that we haven't been using protection."

Joe looks concerned.

"What do you mean?"

Stirling gives him a look.

"What I mean is you haven't been taking precautions and I am not currently using any form of contraceptive. Basically, for the past two weeks, we've been playing reproductive Russian roulette."

Joe stares at her, his face unreadable.

Stirling decides a different approach may be required.

"When a fertile woman, such as myself, gets together with a virile man, such as you, and they shag multiple times per day, every day, for two weeks straight without using any kind of birth control, there is an increased chance of a pregnancy occurring. If this said behavior continues unchanged for another two, three, four, six weeks, a pregnancy is almost guaranteed."

Joe continues to stare at her.

Stirling feels a flare of annoyance.

"Joe, I'm trying to explain this as best I can …"

"Are you trying to tell me your preggers?" he asks with an unsteady voice.

Stirling's eyes widen.

"No, no, I'm not pregnant. At least, I don't think so."

Joe appears disappointed.

"What I'm trying to explain is if we carry on like we have been, there is a very good possibility I could end up that way – preggers."

Joe smiles wistfully.

"I think that would be wonderful," he says, leaning forward and kissing her passionately. Stirling can feel her body responding to his lips, moving into his embrace, but she fights against it, pulling back.

He looks at her questioningly.

"You don't want to have children?"

Stirling wasn't expecting the conversation to take this particular route.

"Yes, someday. I'm almost 34 years old. I know I'm not getting any younger. I know studies show the older a woman is, the harder it is for her to conceive."

"But …" prompts Joe.

Stirling looks down at her hands sitting loosely in her lap before returning his gaze.

"I've always imagined I'd be married before I had children. That I would have an established career, a house, a husband, stability."

"I'm stable," Joe says defensively.

Stirling laughs and wraps her arms around his upper shoulders, leaning her head forward until their foreheads meet.

"Indeed you are Sergeant Joseph Penhale; indeed you are. You are the poster child of stability. And honour. And duty."

"Then let's get married," his says, his eyes meeting hers with a gleam of excitement.

Stirling is gobsmacked. She definitely wasn't expecting that. All she had wanted to do was talk about birth control.

Joe reaches out and clasps her hands in both of his.

"I love you. I never thought I would ever say those words again. When Maggie left me, I thought my heart would never heal. But then I met you and a month later you literally came roaring into town and into my life. The moment you took off that helmet and tossed your plait of hair, I was a goner."

"I want to live my life with you. I want to hold hands with you, dance with you, have babies with you, have terrible rows with you, make up with you, sleep with you, grow old with you. You make my life complete."

Stirling's convinced the lump in her throat is going to cut off her air supply. Of course, she knows as a medical professional, this is physically impossible.

"So, when you talk to me about taking precautions and using birth control, I say no," says Joe. "I love you. I want to marry you. I want to have children with you. I'm 45 years old. I don't want to wait any longer."

She's afraid to look up at Joe. Actually, she's terrified. She feels his fingers on her chin, slowly lifting her face into view. She wants to fight him but she can't.

"Stirling," he whispers. "Look at me."

She raises her eyes up to his. She knows they must be shiny with unshed tears. She doesn't want to cry.

"What are you thinking?" he asks quietly.

She doesn't know what to say. She's confused and a bit surprised by the speed of it all.

"I'm thinking this is all a bit fast," she manages to choke out. "You don't even know me all that well."

"You don't think I know you?"

"I loathe cooked spinach and all organ meats," she says in a rapid-paced voice filled with panic. "I hate dirty dishes left in the sink but I am dismal at all things domestic, especially cleaning house. I colour coordinate my wardrobe when I put my clothing away. I hate the feel of seams in the toes of my socks. I'm superstitious about ladders and black cats even though I know it's all complete crap. I hate blood pudding. I still really don't understand all the rules to cricket. I hand wash my delicates and leave them hanging around in the loo to dry. When I read the newspaper, I leave the sections scattered all over the house. I snore when I'm really tired. In my sleep, I steal all the covers. I can't sleep comfortably on any sheets but high thread count Egyptian cotton, which you don't have. I don't like people touching my books or the items in my doctor's bag. I've never been able to actually read and understand James Joyce's _Finnegan's Wake_ or Virginia Woolf's _To The Lighthouse_. I get in certain moods where I read sordid, trashy, bodice-ripper romances and watch sappy girl movies. I don't think I'd make a very good mother."

There, she had said it.

"You don't think you'd make a very good mother?" Joe asks, puzzled. "What makes you think that?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact I never really had a mother to show me how? I've seen my sister with her babies; Louisa with James Henry; patients with their newborn little ones – I don't know if I can be that way, have that all consuming love."

He's quiet for a few moments.

"But not three minutes ago, you told me you wanted to have children. Do you or don't you? I'm confused."

"I think it's hardwired in to most people to want to have children," she explains. "That doesn't mean it's the right or smart thing to do."

"I think it's normal for people to have some doubts about their abilities, especially something they have little to no experience with," says Joe. "But I've seen you with James Henry. You're wonderful with him. He adores you. He calls you Aunt Stirling, for god's sake. Not surprisingly, he just calls me Penhale."

Despite her best efforts, she laughs.

He wraps his arms around her and pulls her against his body. She tries to burrow her face into his chest, relaxing against him, as he strokes her hair.

"Then there's the whole idea of marriage," she adds.

His hand stops stroking.

"Okay, now you're really confusing me. The same time you said you wanted to have children, you mentioned you wanted to be married first. Now you have something against marriage?"

Stirling sighs.

"Joe, the last man who asked me to marry him tried to kill me, twice. He almost killed you."

"He was also sixpence short of a shilling," he reminds her. "A complete psychopath. I hope you're not suggesting he and I had anything in common."

Joe pauses.

"Except the desire to marry you."

He pauses again, wondering if that was a good thing to point out. He gives up.

"What I mean is, I hope you're not suggesting I'm a psychopath."

"No! All I'm pointing out is I have some doubts. It would be an extremely hectic life. Look at us now. We alternate between the surgery and your place at the police station. We get called out to emergencies in the middle of the night. My clothing and toiletries plus yours are scattered between two residences in Portwenn."

"Just think how convenient it would be to have them all in one place," Joe says earnestly.

Stirling laughs and hugs him close.

"I love you," she whispers in his ear.

"Then marry me," he whispers back, kissing her.

His kiss is powerful, strong, all consuming. Stirling finds herself responding. Her hands are everywhere – gripping his shoulders, pulling at his hair, scratching his back, and grabbing his bum. He gasps as her teeth nip his bottom lip. And then her lips are moving – along his jaw, against his neck, down to his chest.

"I'll think about it," she whispers. "But right now, I want you."

He groans as he removes the counterpane from around her body and lowers her down to the mattress.

* * *

It's late morning when Stirling finally opens her eyes. She slept in, she thinks with a stomach-churning feeling of panic. But then she remembers – it's Sunday.

Joe's bed is a mess. The sheets have been ripped off, pillows are thrown everywhere, and the counterpane is missing.

_Intense night_, thinks Stirling.

Joe lies on the mattress, flat on his stomach, his arms above his head like he's under arrest. Stirling giggles at the idea. She grabs a sheet from the floor and pulls it up to cover him. He doesn't move.

_Poor bloke_, thinks Stirling, standing up and walking to the washroom in the hall. _He must be exhausted_.

She turns on the water to the tub and adjusts the temperature before putting in the plug. After using the toilet, she climbs stiffly into the tub and sits down in the rising water.

She had been very demanding last night, pushing, pulling, grabbing, wanting more. And she's feeling it this morning. She has a bite on her shoulder that she seems to recall provoking. And her lips feel bruised, like she's been kissed hard and often.

She lies back in the tub and lets the warm water cover her body. She closes her eyes and sinks under the surface, down to the bottom. She lies down there, holding her breath, listening to the roar of the tub filling. She can feel the water relaxing her muscles, soothing her pains. She rises to the surface and shuts off the tap before taking another deep breath and sinking to the bottom again. Now it is quiet, just the sound of water dripping from the tub faucet, the odd squeak as her body rubs against the porcelain. So peaceful.

She thinks about last night. What the hell happened? She turned in to some kind of slapper, teasing and seducing Joe to the point of collapse. And she did this right after bringing up the subject of contraception, which they still hadn't used. What was that about?

And what is she going to say to Joe, wonderful Joe, who wants to marry her? Marriage?

Stirling is confused and scared. What does she want? Does she want to marry the village police sergeant and set up house in a police station? Does she want to have a baby? Does she want to be a GP in a north Cornwall fishing village for the rest of her life?

She's been under the water for one minute and she can feel her lungs beginning to burn.

Suddenly, she feels a sharp tug and pain on her scalp. Her head is jerked out of the water. She screams and opens her eyes to find a naked, pale-faced Joe on his knees beside the tub, a large handful of her hair in his hand.

"What the hell are you doing?" he shouts.

"I'm having a bath," Stirling shouts back.

"But you were, you were under the water so long," he stutters, clearly upset. "I thought you were dead."

"I was thinking," she says, rubbing her head. "Did you rip all the hair out of my scalp?"

"Just a little," Joe says sheepishly. "You're a nutter! Who on Earth does their thinking under water?" he adds, getting angry again.

"Fish!" Stirling shouts back.

They're both silent as they glare at one another. And then they start laughing at the ridiculousness of the whole thing.

Joe leans over the tub edge and kisses her.

"I really thought you were dead. You were so still. And you weren't coming up for air."

"I assure you I am very much alive. Do you want me to prove it to you?"

With the slight shift of her weight and a quick pull on his arm, Joe tumbles into the bathtub on top of her, water cascading everywhere.

"Now I know you're a nutter," he laughs, kissing her. "You've flooded the bathroom."

"Floor needs a mopping anyway," she says, pulling his body down to hers and entwining her legs in his. A few kisses later, they've both forgotten all about the floor.

* * *

"Did you mean what you said last night?" Joe asks her later that morning as they lie in bed, him on top, his head resting on her chest.

"When?" she asks sleepily.

"When you said you'd think about it."

"Yes, I meant it."

He's silent for a little while.

"Do you have any idea how long it's going to take you to think about it?"

Stirling laughs.

"When I make my decision, you'll be the first person I tell."

He lifts his head from her chest, propping his chin up on his hands.

"Just promise me you won't leave this poor bloke waiting for months," he says.

"I promise."

She's silent for a little while.

"What about our other discussion from last night?" she asks.

"Which one? There were so many. I seem to recall a lot of them had to do with your god. I thought you were having a religious experience or something."

Stirling gasps in outrage and slaps his bare bum, hard.

"Oww! That hurt!"

"You know what I'm referring to," she says.

"I have a vague idea," Joe admits, rubbing his stinging arse. "You know, doing nothing about the one could help you make a decision about the other. We could let fate decide."

She gives him an annoyed look.

"How romantic," she says sarcastically. "It wouldn't be fate making the decision; it would be simple, basic biology combined with timing."

"Speaking of romantic," he mutters.

"There are lots of couples who try for years and never have children," he adds.

"Proving my point – it comes down to biology and timing. There are couples who are infertile due to biology. And there are couples who are having difficulty becoming pregnant because they aren't trying at the best time. Studies have been conducted using couples who are shift workers. Despite having almost daily sex for months, they couldn't conceive. But once they changed their work schedule, the majority became pregnant within two months. Timing."

"Well, I think the timing is perfect," says Joe stubbornly. "I think we should try to get a head start on this."

Stirling shifts her body, ultimately unseating Joe in the process, so she can look him in the eyes.

"You're going to be difficult about this, aren't you?" she asks, amazed.

"I told you how I feel," he says. "I love you. I want to marry you. I want to have children with you. And I don't want to wait. I never wanted to be one of those old dads with grey hair and little babies."

Stirling laughs.

"You're not old!"

"If we could magically have a baby tomorrow, I would be 50 when he or she turned five, 55 when they were 10, 65 by the time they were 20," he says. "That's old."

"Well, we better start looking for that church plot for you now, eh Gramps!"

"Actually, when I kick off, I want to be cremated," Joe states matter of factly.

"That's it!" Stirling says sharply, springing out of bed and digging around for her clothing on the floor. "Conversation is over."

"What's the matter?" asks Joe, rolling on his side to watch her buzz around the room, looking annoyed.

"I'm not going to lay around here listening to you talk about how old you're going to be in 10 and 20 years or what you want done when you die," she sputters. "It's incredibly morbid and upsets me."

Joe looks surprised.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you," he says. "Come back to bed, Stirling. Please."

She looks at her watch.

"It's almost noon anyway," she says. "We should be getting up."

"It's our day off. You don't like lazing around in bed with me?"

She stops her frenetic clothing search and looks at him.

"I love lazing around in bed with you."

"Then get your arse back in the bed, you kooky woman!" he says, throwing back the covers and making room for her.

Stirling stands there for a moment, eying the comfortable cocoon of blankets before she drops her assembled clothing beside the bed and crawls back in next to Joe. He throws the covers back over them and pulls her toward him, snuggling her body against his.

"That's better," he says, holding her tight and stroking her hair again. "We won't talk about anything controversial or upsetting anymore today."

For several minutes, they lay together comfortably in each others arms, relaxing.

"You know Stirling, I've been wondering something for quite some time now," says Joe innocently. "How did you vote in the last national election and what are your views on capital punishment?"

"You bloody bugger!" Stirling says, pouncing on him as he tries to fight her off.

They roll around in the bed, laughing and play fighting until Joe finally gets the upper hand, pinning her arms down.

"Now I have you right where I want you," he says, leaning over and kissing her fervently. Soon, her arms are wrapped around him, pressing his body closer to hers.

"You just want me to be barefoot and pregnant," she gasps as he kisses down her neck and along her clavicle, his hands busy elsewhere, making her shiver with excitement.

"No, I don't," he says between kisses. "You really should wear something on your feet for support and protection. It's not safe to walk around barefoot in the village."


	46. Chapter 45

Summer continues its sunny, warm course, driving hundreds of holidaymakers to Portwenn weekly.

And with the holidaymakers come the mishaps. From cuts and scrapes to jellyfish stings and broken legs, Stirling deals with them all that summer, on top of the usual ailments and conditions that bring the local residents in to visit her.

Connie Allister, who lives on a farm outside of Portwenn, is in her third month of pregnancy when she comes to the surgery one afternoon to have her suspicions confirmed. She looks completely gutted when told the news.

"This will be my fifth in eight years," she says. "I'm exhausted just thinking about it."

"Have you and your husband discussed birth control or something a bit more permanent, like a vasectomy?" Stirling asks.

Connie laughs bitterly.

"I can't get him to wear a Durex on his John Thomas and you think you're going to get a scalpel near his plums? Not bloody likely!"

Stirling considers this for a moment.

"Well, let's get you through this pregnancy and then we can discuss alternative birth control methods. There's more available now than condoms and birth control pills. And some can be very long lasting, up to six months between treatments."

Connie looks interested.

"Would he know I was taking something?" she asks.

Stirling looks worried.

"No, there are injections that can be administered or hormone dispensers that can be inserted under the skin or inserted vaginally. But I'm not advocating keeping this from your husband. Family planning is obviously an activity he should be involved in."

"Oh, he's involved all right. He plans when the next one's coming, damn bugger."

"Like I said, let's get you through this one and then we'll look for a solution," says Stirling, feeling concerned for Connie. "I'm going to make you an appointment to have an ultrasound done so we can date this baby accurately. But from the looks of things, I'm guessing he or she will be arriving around Christmas."

"Happy bloody Holidays!" Connie mutters, walking out the consulting room door.

Stirling sits at the desk, gripping the edge in a panic.

_Is that what happens to you after having children?_ she wonders, horrified.

She glances down at Connie's patient chart. She's two years younger than Stirling but looks 10 years older. She started having children at 24, not long after getting married.

Stirling jumps to her feet and does something she's never done before in the 12 months she's been working at the surgery.

"Next patient!" she bellows.

_It feels strangely therapeutic_, she thinks, _sort of like screaming into the wind in an isolated, open field_. She finally understanding why it appeals to the Doc.

She walks into the waiting room, gripping Connie's patient file white-knuckled in her hand, and is surprised to find Morwenna gaping at her open-mouthed. The patients waiting are also staring, somewhat shocked.

Stirling sets Connie's finished chart on Morwenna's desk with a note attached asking for an ultrasound appointment to be booked.

"Next patient please, Morwenna," she says softly, turning and walking back into the consulting room.

* * *

That night she lies in bed upstairs, facing Joe. He is describing in mind numbing detail a fender-bender that occurred on the road to Delaboe that afternoon. It's typically a story that Stirling would find amusing, particularly the way Joe would be all excited telling her about it, re-enacting measuring out skid marks and tracing the debris field back to the point of impact. But her mind is back in the consulting room watching the light in Connie Allister's face burn out when she's informed she's three months pregnant with her fifth child in eight years.

"Stirling? Stirling?"

She looks up, focusing on Joe.

"I'm sorry, I was off somewhere else for a moment."

"I'd say," he says with a laugh. "I've only been calling your name for the past minute. You haven't told me what your day was like."

"Busy," she says, nodding her head, distracted.

Joe frowns.

"Your days are always busy. Did you have any interesting visitors? Another case of suspected rabies that really turned out to be someone's toddler drinking too much water mixed with washing up soap? Any farmers insisting you test them for avian influenza because one of their laying hens sneezed?"

She suddenly jumps out of bed and grabs her dressing gown from the hook on the washroom door, wrapping it around herself.

"Where are you going?" Joe asks, sitting up in bed. He's mystified as she heads for the bedroom door.

"I have to check something downstairs," she says hurriedly, rushing out into the hall.

"Stirling? Stirling?" she hears him calling after her.

She pounds down the stairs as quickly as she can in the dark and trots into the consulting room. She closes the door behind her, cursing the no interior locks rule sparked by the actions of a GP several years previously, and turns on the lights. She doesn't have much time.

She turns to the sample cabinet and opens it, digging through different drug packets until she finds the one she's looking for. She rips open the package, pulls out the blister pack and pops the first pill in the series out of its bubble and swallows it down. She shoves the rest of the package in the pocket of her dressing gown and throws the wrapper in the garbage.

"What the hell is going on?" Joe asks as he opens the door and walks into the room. He's pulled on a pair of boxer shorts. "Are you okay?"

He walks up to her, grabbing her shoulders and looking into her eyes.

"One minute you're lying all comfy and relaxed in bed beside me, the next you're sprinting down the stairs like the surgery's on fire."

"I had to check on something," she says, smiling and grabbing one of his hands. "It was silly really. I thought I had left the sterilizer on but it's fine."

She moves to walk out the door but Joe's not moving and he's not letting go of her hand. She turns back to face him.

"What's going on?" he asks again, softer. "You've been distracted all evening, wandering around in some kind of daze. And you didn't come in here because you thought you left the sterilizer on. You're a lousy liar, Stirling, except when you're playing poker."

She sighs, knowing she'll never get him to drop this. Persistent bloody police sergeants!

"Can we go back upstairs? I'll tell you there."

He reluctantly leads the way as she shuts off the lights and closes up the consulting room. She follows him back up stairs, into the bedroom and sits cross-legged on the bed facing him.

"I had a patient today who kind of upset me," Stirling explains. "Not because she was mean or nasty or anything like that but because of the situation she found herself in. I had to confirm her worst fears – that she was three-months pregnant."

Joe sits there, watching her quietly and waiting, knowing there has to be more to the story.

"This particular pregnancy will mark her fifth in eight years."

He gives a low whistle.

"That's a lot of little ones in a limited amount of time."

"When I gave her the test results, it was like the life just went out of her eyes," Stirling recalls. "She just looked resigned, sad, like her life was ruined. I didn't know what to do, what to say. I asked her whether she and her husband had ever discussed birth control, family planning. She just laughed bitterly."

"She scared me, Joe. Is that the future?"

Joe gives her a shocked look.

"You think that's going to be your lot in life if you marry the police sergeant from small town Portwenn," he says, an edge to his voice.

"No!" she insists but she knows she doesn't sound convincing. "I remember the Policemen's Ball, talking to all those police constables' wives. None of them had careers, jobs outside the home. They talked about play dates and potty training. That's not me, Joe!"

"No one's asking for it to be you," he says, frustrated. "Those are the lives of those particular women, their choices, their family situations, not yours. I wouldn't want you to be like them. I fell in love with you, not some version of you I think you can be moulded into. What kind of monster do you think I am?"

Stirling covers her face with her hands.

"I don't think you are a monster, Joe," she says softly. "I'm just scared and confused."

"All because I asked you to marry me," he says bitterly. "Just like the last monster in your life."

He climbs out of bed and pulls on his uniform pants and grabs his shirt, pullover and tie from the back of the chair.

"What are you doing?" Stirling asks quietly.

"I'm getting dressed and I'm going home," he says, sliding into his white dress shirt and doing up the front buttons.

"Please don't," she says softly, tears dripping openly down her face. "I love you, I'm sorry and I want you to stay."

What she says makes him pause. He looks at her, made miserable by his actions, and he feels a flare of anger in his stomach.

"I feel like all we ever do is go in circles," he says. "I love you, you love me, we move toward the next step and you balk. This is just like that day at the beach but now it hurts even more. I don't want to be in pain every time our relationship moves forward,"

He walks toward the bedroom door and pauses, looking back at her.

Stirling cries openly now, her eyes swollen, the tears falling nonstop down her face.

"Please don't," she whispers.

Joe walks out the door and she hears him pound down the stairs. The front door opens and closes. He's gone.

And once again Stirling is alone, her arms wrapped around her knees, with just her thoughts and her memories to keep her company. All she can think of is the advice the important people in her life had tried to give her. She obviously hadn't been listening.

"You seem like a right nice doc," Frank Buchwald had told her all those months ago. "Take my advice. Don't wait. Don't think. Just do it."

"A wonderful young man and completely smitten with you," Leyland had said to her last Christmas. "You wait and see. I think that man will surprise you one day."

"Spending your nights in the arms of someone you love, someone who loves you back, will help the nightmares go away," Joe had told her that day on the beach.

"My darling Ling-Ling, you need to figure out what you want and what you plan to do with your life and soon," Michael had said to her later that same night. "You have to decide whether you're ready to grow-up because other grown-ups are counting on you."

"If you meet someone who is able to turn pain into poetry, don't let them go." Good old Leyland, who can always see past the jumbled up feelings and straight to the heart.

Stirling slowly stands up from the bed and walks into the washroom. She digs in her house coat pocket and pulls out the blister pack of birth control pills. She looks at it and slowly pops each pill out of its bubble into the toilet. As she flushes, she watches the pink pills swirl about and then disappear. With a satisfying clang, she throws the empty package into the bin.

As she walks out of the washroom, she is startled by a form in the bedroom doorway.

"I only made it as far as the front door," says Joe. "I couldn't walk through it. I tried but – well – as you can see, I came back."

They stare at each other for what seems like an eternity. Then Stirling rushes forward and wraps her arms around him, almost knocking him over.

"I'm sorry," she says, crying softly into his blue pullover. "I was stupid, and crazy and I've spent way too much time over analyzing everything. I've been thinking and thinking and not doing. I've been afraid to grow up but now I have found my poet. You take away my pain. I know other grown-ups are counting on me. I want to help the nightmares go away and surprise you one day."

Joe stands there, his arms wrapped around her, holding her as she cries. But eventually, he backs away and looks at her.

"What are you babbling about?" he asks, a smile crinkling the corner of his eyes. "I didn't understand a word you just said."

Stirling is now laughing and crying at the same time.

"I didn't either," she hiccups. "I just know that I don't want to live without you and I never want to be away from you. I love you Joseph Penhale."

And then he is kissing her and she is kissing him. They are on the bed, discarding his shoes and uniform, tossing off her dressing gown, under the covers, in each others arms, in passionate bliss.

* * *

Later, Joe sits propped up in the bed, cradling her in his arms. He periodically kisses or caresses her, like he can't live unless he's connected to her in some way.

"I've made up my mind," she whispers.

He looks down at her in surprise.

"You have?"

"Yes. But I want you to ask me properly."

"Properly?"

"Yes, properly."

Joe wonders what properly might look like.

He untangles himself from her arms and climbs out of the bed, snagging his boxers from where they were thrown on the floor.

Stirling shakes her head.

"Naked."

He looks at her and drops his boxers from his hand.

He goes down on one knee beside the bed and takes her two hands in his.

"I love you more than I can ever possibly express in words. Stirling Mason Aylesworth the Third, make me the happiest man in the world and say you will marry me."

Stirling feels tears welling in her eyes but fights them back. The man kneeling before her is beautiful, loving, loyal, moral and true. And she loves him; oh, how she loves him.

"I haven't been fair to you, Joe," she says sitting up in the bed. "And I'm so sorry. I've been scared and afraid. But I'm not anymore."

"Yes," she says, clearly and forcefully. "I love you, Joseph Edward Penhale. It would be an honour to marry you."

And then he's there, hugging her, holding her, kissing her. He cups her face in his hands and kisses her over and over again – her lips, her nose, her eyes, her chin, her forehead.

She laughs.

"What about our other discussion from that night?" he asks.

"What discussion? There were so many."

"I think you know what I'm referring to."

"Oh! That!" Stirling says, smiling. "I thought we might give your fate theory a try."

He gives her a surprised look, his eyebrows arched upward.

"What about biology and timing?"

"I already know all about that," she says. "But I haven't tested out this fate technique yet. It sounds interesting."

"It does, doesn't it," Joe says, wrapping his arms around Stirling and lowering her down to the bed beside him.


End file.
